


Dancing Lights and Singing Shadows

by LazyWriter1977



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Morgana (Merlin), Eventual Smut, Redemption, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriter1977/pseuds/LazyWriter1977
Summary: Morgana died, and woke up.Was it all a dream, or had she finally fallen asleep?Albion will never be the same, or what it was meant to be.





	1. Prologue

“What a joy it is to see you Arthur.” She lied as she watched Emrys’ body stilling on the ground. Walking the few steps towards her goal, she watched the feeble struggles of the wounded king with unconcealed eagerness. “Look at you, not so tall and mighty now.”  
   
He said nothing in return, meeting her gaze blue vacant eyes, growing oh so faint. Maybe now he knows how she feels if only a little.  
   
“You may have won the battle, but you lost the war. You’re going to die by Mordred’s hand.” It was only fair. He took away another piece of her heart, one more to join the emptiness, it was still far from enough though, it was far from just. “Don’t worry dear brother, I won’t let you die alone. I’ll stay and watch over you, till the wolves gorge in your carcass and bath in your blood.”  
   
“No, the time for all this bloodshed is over” Startled, she spun around following the voice, to find Emrys again on his feet. His hands gripping the handle of Arthur’s weapon pathetically and she wondered, why would the all mighty sorcerer go for a sword? He could barely hold it right as he spoke. “I blame myself for what you’ve become...”  
   
“Merlin”  
   
“...But this has to end.”  
   
You blame yourself? His words shook and fueled her with a new sort of hatred, one born of another trying to take away her choices, even now, he was trying to bring everything upon his shoulders. It didn’t even register to her that her brother had tried to speak. She was watching Emrys’ approach with wearily, her heart drumming against her rib cage. His eyes, there was something familiar and yet menacing there, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be afraid. “I’m a high priestess, no mortal blade can kill me.”  
   
Here, have some water.   
   
Then the hard steel pierced her skin, and she felt the pain bursting through her body, taking away her breath.  
   
He will be your destiny and your doom.   
   
“This is no mortal blade. Like yours, it was forged in a dragon’s breath.” Emrys said, his eyes blue, blue like lightning, the blue of an unforgiving ocean. No! No! She wanted to scream, but each breath seemed to bring her closer to the night, her vision growing dark as his voice carried on, in a way he might as well have spat at her. “Goodbye Morgana.”  
   
Who did he think he was to say that to her, him the betrayer, the secret keeper, the monster who dared cast blame and take it away?  
   
“You’ve brought peace at last.” Her brother mumbled and after so long she felt like crying.  
   
Peace? PEACE? She wanted peace! She wanted freedom!  
   
Now they were saying that her death brought peace!  
   
No… She cried out, even as her magic deserted her. No, she sobbed in her mind, as her conscience drifted away.   
Barely aware that she was alone, overcome by the darkness at the doors of death, Morgana heard the gentle flap of wings and next she knew, soft, warm, sheets greeted her back to the world, the gasp leaving her lips as she laid there in a shivering sweaty mess.   
With her heart pounding against her chest, Morgana blinked at the canopy, taking the furs closer to her body as if they could protect her from the pain of countless wounds, and yet they did nothing against the gash she felt tearing her heart apart in a thousand pieces.  
   
She blinked again, her lips tasting the salt from tears she was unaware of shedding until she gathered enough strength to sit and bring a shaking hand to her face, clearing messy bangs from her eyes with a strike of realization.  
   
I’m alive.   
   
The thought was oddly devoid of any comfort, instead it only seemed to grip her chest tighter, as a whole life vanished from her sight to show her what could be a dream and yet she knew to be real. An old room, that belonged to a person she used to be, warmer than anything in her recent memory. Close to the bed, the sight of a sleeping blonde woman invited a gasp from her lips.  
   
Shooting away from the furs, Morgana made an effort to leave her bed, her bare feet feeling the assurance from the cold stone. Instinctively she covered her guts, but there was no wound there, no sword of dragon breath stabbing her, nothing…  
   
I’m alive… So that was…   
   
The realization felt like a punch to her chest, one that made her want to scream and thrash about, her feet staggering as the first sob racked through her body. Traitors… she thought vengefully, the word felt as sharp and menacing as Excalibur’s blade… traitors, traitors, traitors…  
   
“Morgana?”  
   
My friends… The word summoned a bitter laugh from the depths of her being, and for once she couldn’t question the vanity of being amused by the thought. My dear friends, against me, one after the other…  
   
“Morgana, thank the Goddess you’re all right.” Strong arms took hold of her shaking form, and Morgana allowed the embrace to continue. It felt very real. Her sister. Alive. Was it a vision then? She had been close to seeing her visions as a gift, so close, it was there, teasing her soul, a resolve so powerful it could bring peace.  
   
A vision that was gift them.  
   
She saw her failure and her end… The end of everything, the deaths of so many and now she was in her room, under the soft glow of moonlight with knowledge beyond her wildest dreams and yet, she could only feel the pain, crushing, tearing, pulling her down, until she was sitting in the dark by the foot of her bed. Morgause’s voice seeming muffled and distant.  
   
I should feel triumphant. She thought. I should be happy, I can change all that, kill Merlin now, and Arthur, Gwen, and Uther, take the throne and rule Camelot for all eternity. I can do it. But her mind brought her only Merlin’s tearful eyes and the horror of the poison taking root, her brother’s anguish as she died, Gwen’s noble defiance… The blood, the blood, so much blood… The Dark Tower, looming over dead lands, Morgause’s last words, Aithusa’s screams and the Sarrum’s laughter…  
   
Usually her visions would happen and she would feel the backlash, but still know in her gut that it was a vision. This felt different. The years, the tears, the pains, it was all there, as if she had merely reverted back to a far away past.  
   
It can’t be a vision then, not exactly.   
   
And what does it matter?   
   
Slowly, unflinching before the cold, Morgana rose from her place on the ground, walking towards the window. Her sister was calling her name, but she dared not disturb this sweet dream. Her shift moved around her body, a body free from the scars she felt in her soul. The Moon was high and the stars were countless, and Camelot unfurled before her like a heartfelt wish.  
   
Maybe my death was real and this is the dream. 


	2. A Long Time Ago

 

“Morgana, sister, please talk to me.”

 

Morgause tried once more as the green-eyed woman stood smiling by the window, her hair, brushed by the wind, moved like tendrils of coal making her seem like a ghost touched by the pale light. After what seemed an eternity, her sister finally moved, a simple tilt of the head.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you all right?” The question seemed to make her grin even wider, her eyes growing paler and vacant somehow. Immediately Morgause felt her worries worming their way into her heart. She had known her sister might take blows to her mind when she turned away from everything she knew, but she had hoped that the crown and power could, somehow soften such blows. “Is this about the peasants? You know you did the right thing, the knights would not bend the knee.”

 

“Peasants?” Morgana almost whispered the question.

 

“The ones you ordered shot, remember?” Her sister’s face remained blank, not a single sign of recognition filling her gaze. “Is this about something else? The servant? Your brother? I assure you he won’t evade us much longer.”

 

Her assurance again seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Morgana barely looked at her face instead, surveying the room until locking her gaze into something. When her sister moved, it was towards her vanity, where she laid her hands atop the jeweled crown of Camelot, her finger brushing softly over the gold, where old runes and symbols blushed under the fire.

 

“Is this some sort of torment?”

 

“What?” Morgana didn’t answer, but her hand moved as if to protect her belly, a shiver going through her body that wasn’t from the cold.

 

“This, right here, you, Camelot, it must be some sort of torment.” Her sister kept saying in a voice that was close to a whimper and barely touched the raging of a beast. Approaching her slowly, Morgause dared to touch her shoulder, feeling her sister tensing under her hand.

 

“Morgana, what are you talking about? We were both speaking earlier about how we would go on executing the knights, we would use the gallows, then you suddenly fainted.” Watching her sister nodding her head and sensing that she was actually getting through to her, Morgause searched her mind for the right words. “You were burning and I was deeply worried, yet now you feel so cold to the touch.”

 

Morgana’s eyes suddenly snapped shut, and Morgause saw a couple of tears escaping her eyes as she shook her head, that smile was still there, but now it was mocking, even angry. “This… No… This is...”

 

“Did you have a vision?” Morgause run her hands through her sister’s hair, checking her wrist to see that the bracelet was still there, its magic as strong as ever.

 

Morgana opened her mouth and closed it again, her chest heaving with suffering breaths. Holding her against her chest, Morgause started to whisper soothing words, words she that were meant to be comforting, even if she lost faith in them long ago.

  


Morgana was still crying when the bells suddenly began to sing all over Camelot. Tensing, she let go of her sister right away, as she looked out of the window. “It must be Arthur.” She turned to Morgana who still seemed to be out of herself. “Sister, please stay here and be safe, I’ll take care of this.”

 

And without a second thought, Morgause marched out of the door, seeing that her men were already moving, the black snake of Essetir blazing on their doublets. She gave her orders quick. To bar the gates, to look out for intruders, to guard the Cup. At her last order, she made her way there herself, strutting through the long hallways while feeling for her magic.

 

Soon enough Arthur would be dead and the last threat to her sister’s rule would die as well. Soon. If this night was meant to be something it would signal their triumph and the return of magic to the land. No more would her people live in fear under a foolish king’s boot. Morgana would show all of them.

 

She brushed away the embrace they shared right now, her sister’s behavior would surely return to normal once her place on the throne was secured. She had move on from feeling sorry about her choices, for change never came without blood.

 

The door to the chambers was wide open when she finally saw it. Racing there, she came in just in time to see a knight and the servant killing the last of the guards. Even though he was undead and protected by the magic of the Cup, Morgause saw him collapsing under the touch a blade. There was no time to think about it though, because the servant was running towards the Cup, his intent clear and Morgause threw a stunning spell his way, watching him fall to the ground like a rag doll.

 

Smiling as she walked over, the sorceress allowed herself to enjoy the sight. The armored man was clearly injured and wouldn’t be much of a threat, and meanwhile, the treacherous little snake who tried to kill her sister was now under her mercy. She would have fun ending him. “I have a feeling I won’t be seeing you again.”

 

“No, you won’t.” And before she could turn towards the words, she felt the force of a spell throwing her away from the lad. The hard floor hit her body, taking her breath away for a moment as pain flared from her side.

 

Gulping, Morgause urged her body to get up, gathering her power around her at the sight of the Physician. She was a High Priestess of the Old Religion, she wouldn’t allow an old man to best her, not the snake that lied to Morgana all those years, who kept his position while so many others burned, but just as she was about to summon fire and wind to destroy him for good, she felt her body being lifted once more.

 

All at once it was like receiving a punch from a gigantic fist, the power so tremendous she could barely feel any possibility of defense. Her vision blurred, her stomach sunk and she failed to understand what was happening until a flare of golden light screamed, deafening her ears.

 

The shape of the Goddess itself seeming to reach for her hand, before everything got dark.

 

Morgause groaned, feeling pain pulsing from every part of her. Her muscles ached, high and low and slowly she dared to open her eyes to find a blue sky and tree branches moving past her sight.

 

She raised her head, feeling that she was moving, the thumping of hooves lulling her almost back to sleep, while she found a hunched shape in front of her. When pale green eyes met her over the cloaked shoulders, she felt a sigh of relief leaving her lips, her voice hoarse and dry when she used it.

 

“Sister...”

 

“Are you all right?” There was something strange about Morgana’s voice that she couldn’t identify, she nodded anyway. “There is water by your side.”

 

Glancing down, she found that indeed there was a canteen there. She drunk the water greedily, her thirsty barely registering as she studied the hidden faces of the Blood Guard flanking their carriage, easy to recognize even without the Rowan Tree on their clothing. “What happened?”

 

“We lost” Morgana answered. “I’m sorry.”

 

“There is nothing to be sorry for, sister, who could’ve known that the old man would actually have any power in those bones.” Morgause took another sip of water and spit over the carriage’s side, feeling her joints aching everywhere. “There will be a next time.”

 

She watched her sister nodding, her head lowering down and suddenly she took a better look at her surroundings. The warrior priests were also almost dead atop their horses and there were only ten of them, barely half of their original number.

 

“What is our situation?”

 

“The Knights are pursuing us even now, the Blood Guard is keeping them away as best as they can, but sleep is a luxury until we reach safety.”

 

“You’re tired.” Morgause pointed out watching the way her sister blinked, her shoulders shaking a little. “How long?”

 

“Sister...”

 

“How long?”

 

“Three days”

 

“You’ve been three days without sleep?” Morgause asked furiously. She sat up and slowly moved to her knees, groaning at the snap of her joints. “Are you mad?”

 

“The guard has been moving as long as I am, besides, this isn’t my first time.”

 

Morgause frowned in confusion, wondering what her sister meant by that. “The guard was trained for that sort of thing.”

 

“I have my magic.”

  
“Which has its limits, now give me the reins and go rest” Morgause said, groggily jumping to the seat and having to snatch the leather from her sister’s stiff hands. Morgana seemed about to protest, but she lifted a finger. “Don’t argue, I feel fine, now just tell me where we’re going.”

 

She didn’t really expect an answer as her sister nodded, slowly limping to the back of the carriage. “To the north and east, to castle De Bois”

 

“De Bois? Isn’t that...”

 

“Yes, just wake me up when we get there.”

 

Morgana spoke and trailed off, shaking before finally lying down. In no time she was asleep and Morgause moved on. She would need more answers soon, but for now, Morgana’s safety mattered more.

 


	3. Blunted Blade

 

Breakfast was already atop of her table when she woke up, morning light and cold winds greeting her movements as she dressed for the day. The white warm gown was the same she had been using when she fled Camelot, although they felt too much like the clothes of a stranger as she pulled the thing over the soft silk shift.

 

Sitting down, she picked at the food. After the first hesitant bite, her hunger drove her to end the bacon in instants, the grease running down her chin as she savored the strong flavor. The tankard had lemon water and she drunk a pinch before going for the eggs, biting the boiled white to get to the still soft yolk.

 

It might have been the fact she rode for three days straight with barely any sleep or food, or maybe it was the fact she could feel every scar from the next years flaring under her skin, but Morgana couldn’t remember the last time she had appreciated a meal.

 

After swallowing everything with her fresh water, she allowed herself to think. This day, that day, Emrys’ poisoning felt so distant from her, it was truly strange to think it happened only a year ago even if the scars of the attempt had never really healed. Vaguely she had to wonder what her old friends were up to now. Arthur would surely be trying to heal the scars of his rotten kingdom while looking after his broken father, Gwen, sweet Gwen, would be hovering over his shoulder and making sure he eat his dinner.

 

_ Queen Guinevere. _

 

The thought made her want to laugh and then her laughter died away, her hand hovering over her belly yet again.

 

She was still uncertain about what she had lived through, but one thing was real, whatever had happened, she was back, years back, with so much knowledge she could crush Camelot at a moments notice, and wasn’t that a sweet thought?

 

“Morgana?” The knock had her heart jumping until she recognized her sister’s voice. Her living, breathing sister. Schooling the strong emotions she was feeling the High Priestess cleaned her chin as best as she could.

 

“Come in.”

 

Morgause strode inside the room almost regally, her eyes roaming the land outside the window before zeroing on her. “How are you?”

 

“I’m well” Morgana replied, frowning. “Hungry, but well.”

 

Morgause nodded while the shadow behind her followed suit with his own declaration. “That is excellent news, my lady.”

 

“Thank you, my lord” She answered stoically, watching Agravaine’s calculating gaze, still unsure, still measuring them up, and yet so eager to get blood on his hands. Just like last time. “I really am grateful for your hospitality.”

 

“That is absolutely unnecessary, considering the circumstances.”

 

“Well, it is only natural that enemies of Uther should stand together.” She declared, scratching her nail over the table, her eyes flickering to Aggravaine’s hesitation, almost as if she could see the pieces coming together behind that gaze. Then he nodded, bouncing his long hair up and down. “Are you sure we’re safe here, my lord?”

 

Agravaine followed her stare to the green planes, nodding confidently. “This old keep belonged to me after I became of age, my brother would take Castle De Bois and I would live here. After his death, the keep came into the rule of Castle De Bois and remained without a noble ruler. Rest assured that everyone here is loyal to me.”

 

“That is good know” Morgana said skeptically. “I thank you for your service, and please, know you shall be rewarded well for it.”

 

“Yes, indeed, my lady.” She saw him worrying his lips, while casting a look at her sister who watched everything with suspicion. “If there is anything else I can do for you.”

 

“Not at the moment.” She looked away, only listening as the man took his leave and then her sister muttering a spell for the sake of their privacy.

 

“Are you sure that man is trustworthy?”

 

_ No one is worthy of trust. _ She thought, remembering that even allies with promises would die and leave forever. She felt a stab of pain all of the sudden and found that her nail was now broken, the blood seeping out into the wood almost lazily as she answered.

 

“Agravaine watched Uther not only kill his sister but his brother as well, he is as haunted by the destruction of his family as the rest of us”

 

Morgause was not appeased as she came forward, taking her hand and giving her a strange look as she whispered a healing spell. “By the way he looks at you, I would say he is moved by more than that.”

 

That was an understatement if anything. Agravaine’s loyalty had as many layers as a onion. He wanted vengeance, he wanted a young body to share his bed, he wanted to feel vindicate and also feel like he had taken from Uther his beloved daughter.

  


“He lost two wives to fever and birth, I don’t begrudge him a look. If he goes too far I’ll let you know” _After I’ve gelded him myself_ , she thought, looking blankly down at the knife sitting on her table. “We should talk about other things.”

 

“Yes, lets do it, starting by how you were so certain this man would help us.”

 

“Because he was useful to me once before, until his death.” She saw Morgause’s eyes widening and fought the urge to laugh again, it was also madness, and maybe she was mad to be living through this but when she saw Emrys about to blast her sister and hurt her she couldn’t help but dive into this world and embrace it anyway. “I was older than you when I died…”

 

She saw her sister slowly taking in what she said, until something seemed to finally piece together in her mind. “A vision than, just like I thought.” Morgause looked her over, her eyes twinkling. “If that is true, then it’s wonderful news. We have no need to wait if the key to Camelot’s destruction was revealed before your eyes. You must know a way to do it.”

 

“You died...” Morgana said suddenly, but Morgause didn’t even pause.

 

“Is that what you saw? My death will bring the end of Camelot?”

 

“No, sister, I...”

 

“If that is case so be it” Morgana’s eyes widened, and suddenly she felt the Isle of the Blessed rising around her, its scarred land and shadows drowning her as she gripped the dagger between her hands. “Uther must die sister, my life would be a small price to pay. If that is what it takes to free those with magic from his tyranny, to make him pay for all his crimes, then I would die happily.”

 

“You don’t need to die!” Morgana bellowed. “And it wasn’t that sort of vision! I didn’t see anything! I lived it!”

 

Her temper had clearly frightened her sister. Around her, the furniture tremble under waves of power, but Morgana couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t, not now that she was talking. “I lived! I lived until I was thirty years old, I lived to be betrayed and hurt and abandoned until I was stabbed in the guts by a sword forged in dragon’s breath! I died and woke up Queen of Camelot, like destiny was playing a cruel joke on my life, as it has done for some many years now!!”

 

Morgana tried to breathe as her words died away, but suddenly, the air around her felt more like lead, her lungs were weak, and her knees buckled. The ground seemed to suddenly disappear from under her as her vision darkened. A grave. Her world was a grave and the wails of a white dragon, the sun was gone, always gone.

  


Hands reached around her, but her drumming heart refused to let her go.

 

When she woke up again, Morgause was sitting by her bed and her hands were running through her hair, unnecessarily combing the tangled mess. They locked eyes, and Morgana waited, watching her sister above her, her face without the scars that had been there in her last days. Her memories of so long ago were fogged and uncertain, but even after the living grave she would never forget that scar.

 

“You realize that what you speak of, should be impossible.” Morgause spoke softly and Morgana nodded as if moving underwater. “With everything that was taught to me about magic and the Old Religion, I never heard of anything like this, even the most powerful seers could only have glimpses of the future.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“But magic is still magic.” Morgause whispered, and she was suddenly the High Priestess again, not really a worried sister. “So, you have died, and now you’re here, do you remember your life?”

 

“Some of it” Morgana tried, pierced by a grave and Mordred’s sword buried in the rocks. “I need help though, to remember.”

 

“I might know a way, but you must be certain.” Morgause said again and her tone had Morgana frowning. “It is an old potion, to bring back what was forgotten, but you’re asking me for a life of memories and that might be dangerous and painful. There is no way to purge bad memories from the good ones, or even to seek only the necessary.”

 

Morgana thought about it only for an instant. She was no stranger to suffering, and she would do whatever it took if it meant reaching her goals, destroying her enemies and donning her rightful crown.

  


_I’ll see Camelot on its knees even if I have to look through the veil of my pain._

 

It would take a full day for the potion to be ready, and so it was that at Morgause’s insistence Morgana found herself outside that afternoon, allowing her feet to walk Agravaine’s property with slow deliberate steps.

 

The keep around her was old, with long clean walls and ceilings, supported by decadent columns of marble now covered in vines and moss. Pictures of men and women built with thousands of tiny colorful stones could be seen in the main courtyard, cracked and destroyed by the vegetation bellow. The ruins of a people long dead.

 

Around it though, the lands were filled with dense woods and wide fields where horses could be bred and then sold all over Camelot. A good place for the youngest child of a noble family, a good place for an insignificant life amounting to nothing.

 

Looking over her shoulder, Morgana spied the Blood Guard walking five steps behind, his hood keeping his face hidden, even during the day. They never talked, never balked when ordered and never surrendered. In the past Morgana remembered feeling intimidated by them, but now it was like staring down at bugs she could crush under her boot, not something worthy of meeting.

 

Not that she knew anyone worthy of it, betrayal and disappointment were the only constants in her life after all. Even her sister had abandoned her, eager to die, even now she was eager to die.

 

_ It might be my destiny. To be loved and then betrayed. _

 

Somehow she imagined it wouldn’t be so bad if she had never known Arthur and Gwen in the first place. Had she been alone her whole life, this ache in her heart might have never existed. Had Aithusa and Mordred never come before her eyes, she would never have grieved.

 

_ I blame myself for what you've become.  _ Emrys had barked in her final moments, even in the end his arrogance shined through.

 

_ And what have I become? _

 

_ Alone. _

 

The answer was so simple she felt like laughing.  _ Did I kill Arthur at least? _ She tried to remember, but the last thing she had seen had been her brother’s still living eyes, eyes filled with pain.  _ Alone and broken. _

 

Her eyes suddenly rested upon the bracelet around her trembling wrist, the crest of Gorlois glittering, seeming mocking her state of mind.  _ You were the first to leave me, weren’t you? Everyone leaves eventually whether they wished it or not.  _ Disgusted by her weakness, she closed  her hand into a fist, her muscles strung and eager for release.

 

When she screamed, her power burst with a spell, and the wall to her left crumbled and burst outwards, raining debris and stone towards the garden. Breathing hard, as she glanced at what her hands were capable of she made a silent promise that Camelot would be on the receiving end of it one day.

 

“You there!” The guard watching her squared his shoulders like a scared puppy, good. “Give me your blade!”

 

Wordlessly, the guard approached, his height was very close to her own so that she actually caught a glimpse of bright brown eyes under the hood. Quickly, he unsheathed one of the two swords he had strapped to his belt offering it to her, hilt first. Morgana never understood those who used two weapons, the training necessary to wield both would make it almost impossible to win a fight against an experienced swordsman, but the weapon was a fine one at least, well forged and well balanced, with a simple bare wooden hilt.

 

“Why is there blood on your sword?” She asked, he hesitated. Right. “Speak.”

 

“While you were unconscious, there were knights of Camelot closing in, my lady. Your sister sent us to deal with them.” His voice cracked a little and yet his words were clear and straight. “It was a fierce battle, but me and my siblings won, not one was left alive.”

 

She cocked her head to the side, amused. “How many did you kill?”

 

“Two my lady, one in single combat when he slipped on the mud, the other stabbed in the neck when he almost killed one of my brothers.”

 

In silence, she nodded, lifting her sword to tap at his beardless chin. “Fight me.”

 

The shadowy face couldn’t be seen, but hesitantly, he unsheathed his second sword. Happy to be obeyed, Morgana tested the blade in her hands, twirling the sword in a slow swing, while her muscles complained.

 

_Weak, but it will do._

 

She attacked, slow at first, her blade meeting the guard’s defense without real strength and each time the steel met steel, she felt the blood pumping through her veins with the Battle of Camlann humming in her mind like a long lost song.

 

She struck high, with force and the guard staggered back in surprise.

 

Her heart was beating faster now, and she let each strike be a vengeful blow against her pain. She saw Gwen sitting on her throne, wearing her crown and brought her free hand to punch her enemy. His hood fell back back, revealing a surprised young face that swan in her vision under Mordred’s peaceful slumber. He was retreating now, and the beast coiled around her soul stirred awaken, each shock of steel flaring its thirsty for blood with shards of pain. Morgause’s death, Aithusa’s anguish, the Sarrum’s torture and Uther’s rage. Morgana bellowed and brought her sword down, driving the young guard to his knees and then to the ground. She struck his blade blindly and suddenly a surge of power course through her to the sword, and the lad’s blade burst into pieces of shining blue steel.

 

Arthur’s eyes, her brother’s eyes, dead eyes. _ Dead, dead, dead, dead… _

 

Brown eyes, filled with fear as the young guard trembled under her.

 

Blinking at the sight, Morgana grinned. The fear was sweet, if felt good that she could put it there. She cocked her arm back, eager for the sight of red drenching the grass when a loud call broke through her haze.

 

“Sister!”

 

Her arm stopped inches away from the guard’s throat, as it bobbed in fear under that beardless chin. Looking up, she found Morgause standing a few feet away, giving her a look like a impatient parent.

 

“The potion is ready, come along now.” Morgana nodded, dropped the sword and, without looking back, left the guard alone to reach her sister. “You should not play with the guard like that, they’re a valuable resource.”

 

“There are always men with swords to be found somewhere, dear sister, I’ve found plenty in my time.”

 

Morgause ignored her. Once inside their quarters, her sister walked towards a cauldron over the hearth, took a ladle and poured a small amount of a golden liquid into a bottle.

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“Yes...” Morgana said, as her sister enchanted the flask and the liquid shone like a river of stars. The flow of the sword practice was still pumping through her veins she watched eagerly as the bane of her sorrow was placed in the palm of her hand.

 

“You know you shall remember everything, down to the first word to ever leave your lips.”

 

“Yes...”

 

Once this was over, she would find Mordred and Aithusa, she would find out where the dragon came from and bring her back, she would make sure the world was safe for both of them.

 

Morgause kept her eyes upon her for a long baited breath. “I’ll watch over you.”

 

Morgana took the potion in one single gulp.

 


	4. Light and Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally take a look at Camelot...

  
The papers felt rough and dry under his fingers, the writing becoming blurred as the weight pressing against his temples seemed to worsen altogether. It was all he could do not to go straight to his chambers and hide there for the rest of the day.

Sighing, Arthur rubbed his eyes, the crackling fire feeling like a lullaby as it kept the autumn's chill from the solar. His father’s solar.

He had been so hesitant to take the place before, but with his father still in bed due to Morgana’s betrayal, the weight of the kingdom had fallen upon his shoulders and that was not a responsibility he had the luxury to deny. People depended on him, their safety and well being was now his to bare and so, sighing yet again, he snapped his back briefly, adjusted his arse on the padded chair and tried once more to read the report in front of him.

It felt like he had been there for days, but he knew it had been only hours, hours spent trying to decide what could be dealt with later and what needed his attention immediately. He read through harvest bills, foreign missives, and reports. Cenred’s army and Morgana’s brief reign had left his lands in shambles, and he needed to make sure there would be enough food for the coming winter.

Furthermore, bandits and outlaws had grown bold now that so many losses had been added to his army, further spreading his knights to safeguard the land. The paper in his hands described one of such actions, which Sir Lancelot had recently solved by ambushing a group of bandits close to Rushwick. Satisfied that his new knight seemed to be in control of the situation, Arthur jumped to the next scroll, discovering that it was a petition of grain from the southern villages. He put that away with other papers he would read again in the morning and took the next, in which Sir Leon’s elegant writing required permission to summon levies from the commoners.

Arthur took the feather and signed his name quickly, making a mental note to have it declared in the morning, but paused as the feather left the paper.

Sitting back, he wondered how the people would react to this. If they were trying to bring in the harvest, having strangers going into their lands for the men of fighting age would be taken grudgingly. They would be angry certainly and, suddenly, he wondered if he should throw the document into the fire, and was glad that he hadn’t put his seal on it.

All around him his gaze caught sight of his father’s decoration. His armor was polished and standing into a corner, while a collection of swords and axes decorated the walls beside the heads of hunt prizes. In one such display, there was the broken staff that had summoned a dead army into Camelot not long ago. Morgana had been a hero then, but now he had to wonder how much of that was true. Her smile, his congratulations exchanged later in her chambers, the hug he gave her, thankful that she was alive and well, did it mean anything at all?

And then he was shaking his head, not wanting to be reminded of his supposed sister. Arthur instead thought of his father and his satisfied smile when he placed the broken staff on the wall.

“Let this be a reminder that evil can never surpass an honorable heart.”

Suddenly he looked back to the paper. Camelot was so depleted in fighting men that he had to bring in knights from the borders to keep the peace. If he called upon the peasants and placed swords in their hands it would certainly be a relief for the troops. His father always placed great importance in the army, and if he was to keep his work, Arthur had to keep Camelot safe.

Decided, he was about to place his seal upon the scroll when there was a knock on the door.

“What is it?” He called, watching Merlin putting his head inside the room.

“The council will be meeting soon.”

“Already?” Arthur frowned, he must have lost track of time. “Dammit, I wish they could just make decisions without me.”

“Maybe they can, but I’m not sure that would be good.” Arthur nodded brusquely, the pressure upon his temples growing. “Someone seems to be in a mood.”

“I have a kingdom to rule Merlin, I don’t have the luxury of having moods.”

“Yeah right” his servant snorted.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Arthur ignored his servant. He grabbed his cloak, threw it at Merlin and waited to feel its weight on his shoulders. When ready, he marched down the hallway on his path to the Council Chambers, Merlin’s steps following him all the way until they faded into the back of his mind.

It had not been long ago that taking this same path every day seemed to be taken for granted, and even now he held his breath at the sight of that same door by the corner, a sight he always carried with dread and hope in those days that seemed to have gone by so quick.

It was a cold night of raging storms the first time he had come to that door.

Lightning clashed across the skies, roaring like foul beasts, while monsters of shadows spread all over the castle, encased in their cages of light, things he had wondered if were the rage of that god the bishops spoke so much about.

In his memories he would hesitate to open the door, only to find a little girl looking back at him, angry green eyes seeming never blinking, the same eyes that his father had helped out of the carriage one cold morning. She had been so indignant that he was there, but he couldn’t help it back then, his fear of storms had always felt shameful, something his father wouldn’t approve of, and seeking comfort in his mother’s chambers had always been his secret.

Until her arrival of course.

 _You’re scared._ He remembered her saying when he startled due to the thunder.

_I’m not scared, princes aren’t supposed to be scared._

It was such a certainty to him, something reinforced by his father everyday of his life, something he was as sure of as the color of the skies and Morgana had shattered that belief with a giggle.

_My dad used to tell  me that it’s all right to be scared, that everyone gets scared sometimes._

Small boots had carried him here once, and then many times over, seeking a companionship he couldn’t really find with his father or the other knights, until a time came when his boots had been splattered with blood.

_Sometimes, you’ve got to do what you think is right and damn the consequences._

“Arthur?”

He blinked, not realizing he had been staring at the door as if waiting to meet her there once more. Embarrassed, he started to walk again, ignoring Merlin’s call, even as his servant started to speak.

“You couldn’t do anything, you know that right? Morgana made her choices.”

Arthur pursed his lips, keeping his pace. He was too tired to argue with Merlin, even if his argument was sound. He indeed had no power over the choices of others, Gwen had said the same when she met him after the battle and even though he was thankful, he couldn’t help feeling lost.

The council meeting was as dull, as it was somber.

Geoffrey of Monmouth had plenty of information in his hands, saying that the western villages' food supplies were indeed not enough to feed the whole kingdom, and Arthur had to authorize the use of the citadel’s reserves. Sir Leon asked about the men he wanted to recruit, and Arthur allowed him to do so, but only those above twenty years old. Finally, some good news came when Lord Hector informed of the arrival of three hundred men at arms from the De Bois lands.

“Rather useful folk sire, it will ease the burden on our men in keeping the peace and the load of work.”

“Right, I’ll make sure to send my gratitude to my uncle.” Arthur declared, wondering if he should have thought of asking… No, ordering that himself earlier.

“On another matter, Sire, I feel it is important to say that Essetir currently finds itself without a king and a army.”

“What are you implying, Lord Hector?” Sir Leon questioned to which the man bristled.

“Well, it seems only wrong to not put the question of conquest on the table. Essetir has wide and fertile lands, harbors and mines. Riches that Camelot could surely enjoy.”

Arthur frowned, breathing very slowly. He half wanted to leave the answer to Sir Leon, but he also realized he needed to take charge. “I thank you for your council, Lord Hector, but I find Camelot is in no condition to sustain a war after our last battle, and with winter so close.”

“I’m sure our knights are brave and strong enough, sire.”

“I’m sure of it as well.” Once more he felt the urge to scream his frustration, but held that down. _A king must never show his emotions, son, fear and authority will get you respect._ “Anything else?”

His councilmen looked to one another, and he took his time to study them. Lord Cygnus, thick eyebrows and white beard, seeming always pursing his lips, Lord Tanner and Lord Orin, both his father’s age and still strong as bulls. Lord Hector was rubbing his chin in thought, no doubt wondering about pushing for war later on, while Geoffrey merely allowed his old wise eyes to run through the others. Finally, Sir Leon cleared his throat.

“Actually, sire, there has been some news about Morgause and Morgana, they have been sighted by a patrol, moving north.”

“North?” Arthur frowned, trying to think away from the ache in his heart. “The Perilous Lands?”

“We’re not sure, sire, our patrol was attacked shortly after. Half of them were killed in the fight and the others had to retreat.”

Arthur nodded, schooling his face. And just like that more of his knights were dead on the ground. “I want the searches to stop for now, have the patrols keep their eyes open, but not to engage. I won’t have more lives lost against her.”

“Yes, sire.” Sir Leon nodded right away and Arthur was thankful for that, he wasn’t sure if he could deal with someone questioning his decisions.

“Council dismissed.”

Slowly the room was emptied, leaving him in the company of his servant. Merlin’s presence at least didn’t demand him to keep his emotions in check and, relieved somewhat, Arthur allowed his face to fall.

“Arthur?”

“Yes Merlin?” He raised his head and actually glowered at the servant when he saw the smile painting his lips. “What are you grinning about?”

“You look like crap.”

“And you look like you really need to get to work muddying some horses.”

“All right, I might, if you tell me to, but then I won’t give you the good news.”

“Good news?” Arthur frowned.

“Yes, Gaius told me to tell you that your father spoke this morning.” Arthur blinked, unable to say anything for a moment. Merlin kept going. “I know it isn’t much, but Gaius said that with enough support, he should recover.”

“I...” Arthur hesitated, looking over his servant for a moment, his heart felt ten times lighter somewhat as the fear for his father’s health moved away. “Well, in that case, please go and thank Gaius for me.”

“Will do...” He moved to the door and stopped. “Oh, and Gwen told me to tell you she will be watching your father tonight, so you can rest.”

Arthur swallowed the lump that formed inside his throat and nodded. “Thank her for me as well”

“Will do...”

 _Thank you too…_ He thought, but the words, for some reason never left his lips.

And just like that, he was alone in a chamber that, as far as he could remember, had been the place from which his father ruled his kingdom. Most people always thought of the throne room as a seat of power, but while it made for a astounding sight, it was the Council Chamber that sprouted every decision and where Uther Pendragon’s eyes held the strength to silence any man. Sitting there, Arthur felt horribly small. A part of him, a part that he was ashamed of, actually couldn’t wait for his father to be well again, not out of love, but so he wouldn’t need to rule any longer. Getting to his feet, the prince moved to the door yet again, wondering if some sleep would do him any good.

He was walking down the hallway when he heard the noise, a whisper of steel leaving its sheath, a promise of death. Feeling a chill riding along his spine, Arthur lowered his hand to his sword, his eyes falling to the door to his right. The door to an empty room, her room.

Tense, the blond took a deep breath and pushed the door open, walking inside the dark chambers, his breath catching inside his throat at the sight of a shadow standing by the window, the pale glow of a naked blade in her hands.

Suddenly, Arthur wished he had called the guards, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to draw his own weapon, even when his sister’s pale green eyes finally locked gazes with him.

“Hello, dear brother.”

Arthur blinked, it was strange to say the least to have her calling him that. Her voice sounded nonchalant, but held a tinge of sadness to it that made him stop, his heart hammering against his rib cage.

“Morgana.” He licked his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve come for my stuff.” And as she stepped closer, Arthur could see she had a travel bag in her hands and her body was covered by her tailored mail and armor. Standing there, she was the sight of a warrior herself, and yet when he saw the pale branches sticking out of her bag, Arthur frowned.

“That staff...”

“Belongs to the High Priestesses.” Morgana interrupted him, moving around the bed. Her personal chest was open and she took out a book to place amongst her things. “Along with many other items from Camelot’s Vaults, but you don’t have to worry about them.”

“I can’t allow you to leave” Arthur said, clenching his fist around his blade’s handle, but Morgana kept loading her bag. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you clearly, doesn’t mean I care for what you think.”

“You...” Arthur worried his lips, the burning in his eyes almost as hurtful as the words that came next. “You betrayed us.”

He watched his… sister, stopping her movements for the briefest moment. It was enough for Arthur to snap, all of his lingering rage, hurt and confusion spilling out like poison.

“How could you do that Morgana? How could you suddenly work with a sorceress like that? Our father was wrong to lie to you, b-but…” He paused, thinking through the blur that was his vision, choosing his words carefully “I thought we were friends...”

After a moment of silence, in which he regained his breath, Morgana finally finished what she was doing and Arthur watched her pulling a cloak around her shoulders. Graciously, she moved around the bed and stood, only a few paces in front of him. Why did it feel like miles though?

“We were friends Arthur” The use of the word in the past felt like a punch to his gut.

“Morgana...” she raised a hand to stop him and Arthur flinched, half expecting a spell to throw him away. She noticed, he was sure, but didn’t say a word.

“Stop with that, you know perfectly well my reasons, for years I spoke against Uther’s cruelty, and watched him burning and executing innocents out of his fear.”

“His fear was justified, haven’t you seen what magic does?”

“What it did to me you mean?” Morgana questioned with such a smile, sharp as a knife.

“Your crimes...”

“What crimes were those, Arthur? Having magic?”

“You killed innocent people.”

“And how many innocents did your father kill? How many men, women and children died because he was nothing but a frightened child throwing a tantrum?”

“He is not like that, and that doesn’t justify your actions.”

“It doesn’t” She admitted and Arthur blinked in surprise when she looked away. “Not some of them anyway. What I won’t regret though was getting rid of Uther and his reign. What I won’t regret, ever, is fighting so my kin won’t need to fear for their lives.”

Arthur shook his head, fighting himself all of the sudden. “I-I can’t let you go...”

“Oh, Arthur, you speak as if you had any saying in what I do.” She moved past him, and, surprisingly, he couldn’t find the strength to lift his sword, he did however had strength to ask her.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t expect her to answer, not really. “Away, I’m tired of this rotting country, those blind knights and the filthy laws. I’m tired of all of it.”

“By all rights, you should be judged.”

“Maybe” She whispered, looking over her shoulder. “Then who is gonna judge you and all those who killed when the order was given? Who was there to judge Uther? He was king, I was a queen, and the law, in the end , was what we wanted.”

And then, just like that, she walked out of the door and was gone.

Arthur stood inside her chambers, alone with the darkness, wondering why he was still not calling for the guards. Wondering why her words made him nauseous, afraid and ashamed all at once.

 

 


	5. Wielding the Blade

The man was basically dead, hanging from the crow cages, it was easy to tell that at least. By his side two others were sleeping or dead, she couldn’t tell. Murderers, the sign read, and yet when her sister insisted on asking around they found out the men had actually killed two guards, both responsible for taking food and try to rape a woman from the city.

A very ugly affair, she concluded as one survivor moaned in anguish. One of his eyes was already crow food and she wondered how long it would take for him to lose the other.

All around the villagers didn’t even flinch, going about their usual business like any other day. The Smith would hammer metals in his shop, building a dull song from across the street, while vendors and merchants tried to match the tune with their own shouts and offers. The smell of hanging meat reached her nostrils, and the laughter of a drunkard ceased when he fell on his arse.

It was, by all means, a filthy and ugly place, about two dozen hovels and stone shelters built around a tower where, she had no doubt, a knight or small lord would be greasing his clothes in fat and wine when the meal came. She could see it in her mind, the lands around the tower would send in their grain, remain with little of it and would receive back enough only so they wouldn’t starve during winter. Fear of crow cages no doubt helped to keep the people in line. Still, during their travels, Morgause found this was not the worse place Amata had to offer.

Sniffing, the Sorceress crooked her nose when a fat pig run by her so fast that pieces of what she hoped to be only mud flew over her clothes. Glaring at the young boy giving chase, she pursed her lips and went back inside the small tavern.

Hoping for a breath of fresh air in that place was like praying for diamonds in a swamp.

The smell of ale and vomit greeted her again when she came in. The owner, a plump man with arms the size of logs was sweeping the floor, while his children rolled the tables and cleaned the mugs. His wife would no doubt be in the kitchen as well, getting food ready for the afternoon and the evening. The man looked up when she came over, his yellow teeth showing when he smiled.

“Morning Lass, would ya like some breakfast? My wife can fix something in the kitchens.”

“Just some bread and cheese will do, and cider if you have it.” Morgause answered, finding a table close to the window. She would rather have wine, but this sort of place would hardly be able to afford it and the trip had been a trial to her patience from the start.

She was halfway through her cup when her sister finally emerged from her room. Her hair was loose and tangled, falling over her shoulders and simple traveling clothes. Following her out of the door, went a young man, hurriedly putting on a shirt and moving to the kitchen, no doubt needing to help his mother.

“Morning” Morgana greeted her, taking a piece of bread, seeming relaxed and sleepy.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?”

Morgause sniffled. “Indulge yourself with the likes of that lad, he could have diseases or something.”

“He seemed pretty clean to me” Morgana said looking at her from the corner of her eyes, her lips bending upwards. “And eager as well.”

“I didn’t know we were traveling through this cursed land so you could go on vacation.”

“You know that is not what I’m doing.” Morgause watched her sister’s face, looking for a lie all the same, but it only seemed to amuse Morgana. A young girl shyly left a tankard atop the table, the smell of apple cider moving over them as Morgana poured herself a cup. “I told you what I was going to do, I was very clear that you didn’t have to come with me.”

Morgause frowned, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And I should just let you come alone to this cursed land, hoping you wouldn’t be captured and burned?”

“You could have just sent the Blood Guard.”

“You know what I mean”

Her voice sounded harsh to her own ears, and Morgana lowered her cup, her bracelet gleamed around her wrist, her pale green eyes looking out of the window as the rising sun painted the sadness in them. “I know.”

Not for the first time Morgause was struck by the sight. So far she had seen many sides of her sister, scared, brave, vengeful and confused, but she had never seen this melancholy that had plagued her since she woke up. Once she would have guessed this was a result of losing the place where she grew up, and her so called friends, but of course, the source could only be one thing.

Immediately she went back to those days after the potion and gone down her sister’s throat, watching her struggling, sometimes going so far as to scream in her sleep.

It had taken two full nights until the process was complete.

When her sister finally woke up, it was only so she could drench her dress in tears before falling asleep once more. When she woke up again, Mogause had watched her devouring the food like a starving man, barely minding the grease and crumbs raining over her bed.

When she was done, Morgause finally asked the question she wanted to.“Sister, has the potion done its job? Are you well?”

“Yes.” Morgana had answered in whispers. “I remember everything.”

“And?”

Her sister looked away, and she saw that look. It was so shocking, it looked so much like defeat, but Morgause had no idea what to do in that regard.

“I want to travel.”

“To Camelot? It would be unwise to get there while you’re weak.”

Morgana frowned at her words, her smirk almost dead on her face. “I’m far stronger than that, sister”

“And how do you plan to take down Camelot?”

The answer had surprised and angered her. “I won’t destroy Camelot, I just need to get my things.”

“Your things?”

“My sword, my armor, whatever else I need to make a trip.” Morgause had thought the room had grown strangely cold then, when those eyes seemed to watch her and see nothing. “I have some anger I have to get rid of.”

Now, now here they were, on a strange land of a strange country. A country that hated their people, and her sister was eating, drinking and fucking as if she had not a care in the world. She was about to question Morgana again when the shouts cut her thoughts.

She saw people moving by the window, racing to wherever the commotion was coming from.

Curiosity made her rise in tandem with her sister.

Outside, the local soldiers were all wearing mail and leather, swords unsheathed as they gazed from their mounts towards the ragged crowd. Morgause could hear crying from small children, drowned by fearful muttering, while they stared at a young woman on the ground, an empty bucket rolling under the foot of a soldier, right below the cages.

“I thought my warning had been clear!” The man shouted. His silver necklace told Morgause he was someone of power, probably the leader of the men-at-arms. “These men here were sent to the cages for murdering honest soldiers in your service, I was clear in that they would receive no food or water as by the law, and yet...”

His gaze fell on the lass, his eyebrow raising as he waiting for an answer. Behind him, six of his men waited, swords in hand, while a bunch of others watched everything from where they sat under a canopy.

“Please sir, I was just giving him some water…”

“Some water you say? But that is just against the law! You were helping criminals, did you know?” The man grinned down at her. “You have any idea what they did?”

To her credit, the girl’s voice never wavered, even as she cried. “They killed the soldiers who were threatening T-Tiana.. S-sire...”

“Threatening, oh no, they were merely seeing that Lord John receives his due, otherwise how would you feel if these roads were suddenly filled with outlaws? Those taxes allow us to keep you safe.”

“B-but sir, he is dying...”

“Really?” The man’s eyes widened. “Funny, I’ve seen men spent a full month alive inside a cage, how long have they been there? Three days? Four?”

“S-six.”

“And they have received their share of water, have they not?” The girl hesitated, then she nodded. “Well, then you were breaking the law, were you not, lassie?”

Another nod.

“Well then, maybe I should see that we find a cage for you.” At his words, Morgause saw the girl shivering. Around her the Smith was clenching his fist, and a dozen others were doing the same when they were not sending venomous looks towards the guards. “But, lucky you, I’m feeling generous today, so you might give these poor men some water.”

“R-really?”

“Lyssa! Don’t!”

“Stand back!” The spear rose, the steel pointed towards the heart of the young woman who was stepping forward and now the rest of the soldiers were getting up as well. The leader of the soldiers smirked, no doubt enjoying the power he had over them. If he clearly wasn’t worthy of being called a pig, Morgause could almost relate. She too enjoyed being a source of fear to her enemies.

“Really” The man continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I’ll allow it, but of course you must repay my kindness in some way later, it would be only fair.”

Now Morgause could feel the crowd tensing all of the sudden, it was the baited breath of a storm, and yet, before the dozen soldiers armed and armored that now stood across the street, she doubted the storm would blow more than a breeze. The little girl was slowly getting to her feet, hesitating in looking to the other villagers and the hand reaching her way.

“You’re a coward!”

“Who said that?” The man rose angrily, and Morgause wasn’t surprised that the only person moving was her sister, sword in hand. “Oh, now that is funny! A woman in costume!”

He laughed, his men following suit, but her sister was unfazed as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I dislike the way you’re abusing these people.”

“Oh really now, you must be from far away then, because this is called justice.”

“How is that?” Morgana questioned. “It seems to be common knowledge that those men were merely defending their own from your soldiers.”

The man chuckled. “Well, that would surely grant then mercy, but unfortunately, the word of a commoner is not worth much. They're all a bunch of lies, you can trust a knight in that, lass.”

Morgana blinked, seeming confused, and Morgause had half a mind to drag her away. “A knight? Pardon me, but I don’t see a knight around.”

“I’m a knight!” The man declared with a frown. “I’m Sir...”

Before Morgause could figure out what would come next, a hand shot forward, something whispered in the wind and then the leader of the guards was tumbling back, blood seeping from his hand where a dagger was now planted.

She knew who was responsible even before her sister moved forward, taking advantage of the surprise to ram the first guard through with her sword. The second one tried to react, but Morgana was faster, her blade sung and a gash of scarlet red burst from the man’s throat. Now, the rest of the soldiers were moving, ten of them, all converging on her sister’s coal mane. Morgause gasped, ready to start using her magic, but when Morgana turned around, her smirk was still there, making her stop.

The swordswoman advanced on the first spearman, getting past the sharp point. The soldier tried to retreat, but managed only one step before the sword was shoved under his chin and through his skull, his bowels loosening and filling the air with a foul stench. Another spear lashed out, and Morgana turned, using the body as a shield, and kicking it into the mass of men. Another dagger flew from her hands, straight through a knee, while a spear shattered under her steel, turning the village into a cacophony of screams, grunts and curses.

Morgause saw the Smith from earlier bringing his hammer down on a soldier, while the rest of the villagers reacted as well, overpowering the men by sheer numbers. In the confusion, she saw the so called knight from before trying to reach for the girl, Lyssa,  and before Morgause knew what she doing her eyes glowed gold and the men tripped on the mud.

From that point on, it wasn’t a battle, but a massacre.

When Morgana finally kicked the last man to the ground and plunged her sword into his chest, the village gave away to silence. _Well_ , Morgause thought, watching her sister covered in blood from head to toe as she set her gaze upon the knight. _Good to know all that sparring with the Blood Guard has paid off._

“Please don’t! Don’t do this! I have gold, I can give you...” Morgana slashed at his neck, and his words turned into gurgling noises as he drowned in his own blood.

Morgause kept her gaze on the crowd, wondering to which way they would turn now that the fight was over, because at any sign of danger to her sister she would make them pay. Morgana herself seemed much more confident in the strangers, as she became the center of attention.

“Can I trust that you all saw these men being killed by dangerous outlaws?”

“Big bearded men, came and disappeared like fog” the Smith answered, looking at the warrior woman. “I saw everything.”

Her sister nodded calmly, seeming almost serene as she walked through the crowd, but Morgause wondered how much of those adoring gazes she was receiving would remain so if they knew she was a sorceress. Silently, she followed her sister to the stables, ready for a quick getaway. She was halfway through readying her saddle when the innkeeper’s daughter appeared, carrying their small baggage. Nothing there was truly essential, but Morgause caught herself thanking her all the same, watching the lass spring away with a shy nod.

It was only far from the village that she voiced her complaints.

“That was foolish, if anything went wrong we could’ve revealed our magic.”

“I know” Morgana almost sounded happy.

“Why are we doing this again?”

“We had nothing else to do” was her sister’s answer, as she covered her bloody dress with her cloak.

“You know what I mean, Amata is not fond of magic, sister.”

“And the Sarrum is not fond of helping his people.” Morgana retorted as they approached the edge of the woods. “I won’t stand by and do nothing.”

“Even if it means we get arrested and killed?”

“We won’t, I told you, my visions would warn me of any danger.” Morgana looked at her, and smirked. “I did see you using magic to protect that girl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Morgause barked, just as a dozen shadows moved amongst the trees.

The Blood Guard bowed to them immediately, the dozen that were left after the battle of Camelot. Their leader, a gray-haired man with a crooked nose offered her a nod and quickly the two sisters were mounted inside a cordon of guards, weaving their path through the woods.

“Anyway, when I asked why we were doing this, you know I wasn’t talking about that.” By her side, Morgana nodded, her green eyes never leaving the tricky road ahead. “We should be in Camelot, using our powers to destroy Uther and his reign.”

“And I already told you Camelot is too strong, there are plenty of other places where magic is hated and where we can make a difference.”

“A real difference would be to kill Uther and put you on the throne.”

After Morgana told her about her real parentage, Morgause had finally glimpsed a future where magic was free and the Goddess was adored all over the land, but now, her sister had insisted on taking this journey through a cursed kingdom, filled with poverty and cruelty and taking a sacred relic into it as well. At that thought, Morgause moved her gaze to the staff, held in the saddle of the Blood Guard. She shivered, thinking of its power even mended as it was.

“Just trust me” He sister said again, and Morgause pursed her lips.

“It’s hard to do that when you’re running around fucking peasants and defending miserable villagers whose lives will still be miserable tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow those men in the cages will be free, fed and safe, that little girl will never know the disgusting touch of an evil man and the whole village will sleep a little better and without fear.”

Morgause swallowed the string of curses she wanted to scream. “You almost sound like you’re some sort of hero, sister.”

“Nothing of the sort, I just felt it was something I should do.” Her sister looked down at the sword on her lap, the blood was already drying on the blade. It had been her father’s. Just like the bracelet was their mother’s. “Would it really be so bad that you trust me? I would think you learned to tell me things after you manipulated me.”

“What?” The question caught her by surprise, and for a moment Morgause wasn’t sure she heard it right, but as Morgana locked that green gaze into her, she knew the words were real. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No I don’t, frankly I have no idea how you would dare to accuse me of such thing.”

Her sister scoffed. “Please don’t patronize me, sister, it doesn’t suit you. You found me alone in Camelot and did everything to be the only person I could love, and yet you failed to tell me about me being the vessel of your sleeping plague.”

“You said you wanted Uther to die, you said you chose my side.”

“And I did, I’m still on your side, but I don’t think I would’ve said yes if the whole of Camelot had been at risk, and you knew it.” Morgana answered seriously, and for the first time since her sister woke up, Morgause could see through those cold features into her feelings.

“And what of the whole of Camelot? What of people who cared for nothing and no one, people who see our kind as monsters? I wanted Uther, but frankly, I didn’t give a damn if they died, and you shouldn’t either!”

“There are innocents...”

“Like the peasants you shot? Remember?” The betrayal she glimpsed there made her clench her teeth and look away, her guts wrapping around themselves. “It was a risk worth taking, I needed to do it.”

Morgana suddenly shook her head. “You should have told me everything and talked to me about it, like a real sister would.”

“Uther...”

“I don’t give a damn about Uther! I care about you!” Morgana spoke harshly, her eyes turning from dull green into a raging golden fire, and Morgause felt her body squeezed and released by an invisible force almost immediately.

Suddenly Morgana’s angry gaze turned into horror, and Morgause could only watch her sister spurring her mount forward, ahead of the formation as an intruding thought suddenly appeared.

_Follow her._

Her legs didn’t move. Around her, the Blood Guard remained silent and watchful, and her legs didn’t move. She let her mare go on by herself and wondered how long it would take for nightfall.


	6. The Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter deals with subjects of trauma and abuse. Be careful.

Morgana could feel her rage brushing her heart like warm coal waiting for a spark, something that she found more and more uncomfortable each day.

Once, upon a certain time, that rage had been her driving force, moving her forward through every scar, visible or not. When betrayal struck its ugly head, she used that rage to not fall apart, when lies were exposed and crimes were committed it was her rage which dried her tears and conquered her grief. When she became a prisoner, violated, humiliated and her only love was tortured before her eyes, her rage made her live, it brought her strength and eventually her freedom.

But now, now that life was gone, a future she would never allow to happen, and that rage, as rightful and satisfactory as it felt back then, was more and more turning into an enemy. She tried to rest it aside already, enjoying the new life she acquired at every opportunity, bathing herself in the sun and the wind, drinking the sights and smells of an open field, a pleasures of the flesh, although the last one easily reminded her of other missing touches.

Her greatest secret, one taken to her grave.

Was this the cause of letting Arthur live even when she had him at her mercy? It was pure coincidence that he found her that night, no Emrys, no guards, just the two of them and yet her confused mind refused to bring forth the wishes that had ruled her last years of life. She had thought to leave Camelot behind, but apparently, that wasn’t easily done. Her mind was still a mess, and her future was still a jumble of nothing.

There was one certainty in her life though, something she would never allow to remain alive. It was her vengeance yes, but Morgana couldn’t help but also take it as a duty, more so as she traveled through Amata witnessing a land fit for survival, not living.

“My Lady...” Shocked, she glanced towards the hidden face of her guard. The hood made it seem like there were only shadows there, and so rarely she heard them speak it was easy to believe it, but now, now she knew that under the menacing sight was but a lad, not older than herself, with a youthful face and passable fencing skills. A youthful face she beat down with a blade whenever she felt close to losing it.

Looking down, Morgana realized her hands had been shaking, and quietly she closed them into fists, looking over the city square. The capital of Amata was as bleak and unsavory as the rest of the country, a city of woodwork and muddy streets, growing over masonry and marble from the old conquerors, the palace itself looming over them in gray stone menace.

A city of soldiers.

If Amata owed its power to anything was to their soldiers. That was why much of its taxes and benefits went into their army, making so the rest of the population lived very close to a state of slavery, and yet even the almost slaves would spit on the impaled corpses.

Morgana had not wished to take risks in this place, and so she had convinced Morgause to stay behind while she scouted the city with Accolon and another guard. All in all, she counted this as a very quick mission, but she hadn’t counted on the Sarrum having a whole druid camp captured recently. Apparently, he was making a service of it, parading the prisoners around and enticing the people to hate the so-called demons.

They limped by the main street now, those demons, chained and ragged, some naked, while the people cursed and spat on their way. A little kid threw a stone, hitting a middle-aged man on his side, he tripped and the soldiers roughly pushed him onward while the spit of a woman hit a young girl. Morgana watched and as she watched, the coals smoldered, she could almost feel the flames roaring to life inside herself. She was ready, she would do it. She would kill them all and sooth the fire.

_And killing things mends a broken heart?_

Her hand stopped short of rising above the crowd, her eyes returning to their natural hue as she watched the moment one of the druids dared raise her eyes. Such a simple movement, a simple action, a small condemnation from a peaceful people, and yet Morgana felt the crows flinching around her, parents taking their children to cover, while faces twisted to mask their fear.

Fear.

_They are watching chained prisoners and they’re afraid._

The fires diminished.

That was how he keeps control, scaring everyone of the monsters so they cower under his protection. And just like that Morgana was back in a snow covered Camelot, where the people huddled together for warmth and food was distributed from the storage all over the realm.

Suddenly, she was standing on a balcony as a young man was brought to the central square, and strapped to a pole atop of a pile of firewood, higher that the tallest knight. He screamed, at first insults, barbs and finally just from the pain as the flames consumed him and the smell of roasted flesh tempted her into nightmares where she was the one burning.

“Why did he do that?” She had asked Arthur that morning. He was growing up, but still looked so much like a child. he pouted and stilled his gaze as if repeating a lesson taught by his masters.

“Because magic is evil, it warps people into monsters and criminals who defy the natural order. That is what my father says.” He told her. “Magic killed my mother, we can’t let it destroy more lives.”

She had nodded, understanding his pain in more ways than she expected, but still, witnessing so much suffering seemed wrong somehow. She remembered her father’s gentle voice, reading to her about justice and honor and somehow couldn’t find him doing something like that to a person. She also couldn’t imagine the knights of her books dragging someone to such a cruel destiny without batting an eye.

From that day, whenever she caught the Pendragon sigil on the crimson cloth of the noble warriors, she would hesitate, curtsy and flee from those cold eyes.

“We have to help” She said when she recovered herself. Accolon and the other guard had pulled her into a dark alley, the sound of a trap door banging open and the roaring crowd making her wince and gasp. Apparently, the Sarrum was planning to torture and kill one druid each day.

By her side, Accolon nodded, but the other guard hesitated, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of a gray beard and gray eyes under the hood. “I’m yours to command my lady, however, our high priestess commanded me to protect you, and rescue might prove to be a difficult task since we don’t know where they are imprisoned.”

Morgana nodded. “Don’t worry about that, I know where they are.”

Pulling her own hood down, Morgana stepped into the light, listening to the guard’s steps on the way. She took them around the castle’s outer walls, muttering a quick spell to hide their presence while turning to a secluded courtyard behind the citadel. From where they stood atop the ridge, they could see several holes on the ground, blocked by heavy iron coverings, patrolled by guards in smoke gray doublets.

“The Sarrum doesn’t use dungeons” Morgana explained, looking onto the living graves.

It only took a glimpse, and suddenly she was shivering, the memories were so vivid thanks to Morgause’s potion, she could still feel the hunger, and thirsty and silence from the darkness.

And yet, the darkness had never been as bad as the blinding light when they took her out.

The sudden touch, a brush of skin on her finger, snapped her out of the memory, and she made herself look into Accolon’s chestnut eyes and come back to the present. Voice faltering briefly, she spoke. “We’re probably gonna have to wait till nightfall.”

“I think you’re right my lady.”

“What is your name?” The question made the old guard hesitate, but she asked anyway at least hoping for a distraction. “I learned Accolon’s name and was unsure of how to call you.”

The guard’s head snapped towards Accolon, who seemed to shrink into himself. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Morgana said. “I made him answer.”

“Even if you asked, he shouldn’t have answered, my lady.” The guard spoke coldly. “When one joins the Blood Guard, we give away our names.”

“Just like your families and past loyalties.” When the man nodded, Morgana sighed. “It seems a high price for loyalty.”

“A just price, some might call.”

“So I take it you won’t tell me?” The man hesitated.

“I was once called Bors, my Lady.’

“Well, Bors, we should find a room at the inn and get ready, we’re about to elicit a rescue.”

They moved as soon as night fell upon the kingdom of Amata.

Using her magic, Morgana assured that she and her companions would be invisible to everyone else as they approached the living graves. Muttering under her breath, the sorceress fed her power into the dark night, the guards falling asleep at her passage as if brushed away by a distant wind. Walking over the unconscious men, she stopped short, gazing down upon a face that earlier had been twisted in sadistic pleasure, now asleep. Almost innocent inside that leather mail and spiked helmet. Her hand moved to her dagger as if on its own.

_Will it mend my broken heart?_

The answer felt fleeting and distant even after the guards died.

When they finally came upon the first cells, Morgana made a quick count in her head. The main grave had at least twenty prisoners placed together and shackled to the walls, while another prisoner was isolated from the others in her own pit.

 _“Hello.”_ She sent to their minds, feeling mixed surprise and dread at her touch. _“Please don’t be alarmed, I’m here to help you. I need to know if you are strong enough to climb.”_

She waited, and after a long moment, felt the touch of another mind, speaking with a man’s voice. _“Most of us can climb, but there are children who will need help.”_

_“Very well.”_

Nodding at Accolon and Bors to move on with the rescue Morgana went to get the lonely prisoner. A simple brush of magic had the covering moving away, revealing the pit. Her body froze when she stood before the hole, and it took one long breath before she jumped, muttering a spell under her breath to stop her fall, and land swiftly in front of a woman.

She was plump and old, her clothes had been torn, exposing her legs and one of her breasts, while the hair above her head had been cut and shredded, leaving only patches and uneven bangs of dark coal. Idly Morgana let her fingers run through her own mane, remembering the nights she wished they would cut it. Then she smelled the musky stale stink of the grave and her stomach churned. It was cold all of a sudden. Cold, and dark.

_You’ll do as you’re told, or the beast suffers…._

The crossbows had made any attempt of escape mute, and Morgana had drifted away, even when filthy hands pinned her down, and the muffled laughter punctuated every thrust of a strange cock into her. When lowered down again, she would fall against the wall, shivering with the cold and the horrible feeling of needles prickling at her skin, the filthy between her legs only disappearing when she forced herself to kill whatever could take root while Aithusa groaned and cried into the night.

 _Don’t…_ She wanted to ask,

_Don’t cry for me, please, it’s gonna be fine…_

Falling to her knees the young woman vomited on the floor, her skin shivering with a new layer of sweat as she heaved and sought the moving shape of her love. But she wasn’t there.

_Aithusa!_

_“Breath_ _e_ _child.”_ Spoke a new voice in her mind breaking through the fog of the past. _“Breath_ _e_ _, in and out, don’t be afraid.”_

 _I’m not afraid!_ She wanted to shout at the woman. Nonetheless she followed her advice, breathing with the woman’s gentle words, using her like a mantra. Feeling her lungs finally working again, Morgana rubbed her eyes and resisted the urge to run away from there.

 _She is not here._ She told herself, gritting her teeth. _I should have thought better than jumping down this hell hole._

When Morgana finally found the strength to get back to her feet and walk, the woman had her head raised, revealing a crinkled motherly face, smiling and calm.  

  
_“Are you well?”_

 _“Yes”_ Her answer had more bite than Morgana intended, but the woman didn’t seem to mind.

_“So, you actually came child, I was beginning to fear it had been only a dream.”_

Morgana stopped short while investigating the chains. _“You knew I would come?”_ Covered in runes and blood magic, she knew they were powerful enough to contain weak sorcerers, but she was never weak enough.

_“I had a vision, yes. A shadow taking my people away from the darkness.”_

Cleaning her mouth, she muttered a spell with the taste of bile bitter in her tongue. The first chain broke. _“That sounds more ominous than hopeful.”_

 _“It does, doesn’t it?”_ The woman grinned, yellow teeth, filled with amusement. _“I always wondered about that, I think visions would be terribly dull without some vague menacing words around, fate must have a sense of humor.”_

 _“Fate put you and your people under pain and torture.” F_ ate made her broken

_“It brought you here as well.”_

_“I doubt that.”_ She finally finished the incantation and felt the weight falling on her arms, her hands touched something warm and thick on her back and the woman whimpered. _“Don’t worry, I can take care of that.”_

_“It’s only pain child, I fear leaving this place might be more important than a lengthy healing spell.”_

_“It will only be a_ moment. _”_ Morgana whispered the words carefully, healing spells were difficult to manage and any lapse of her concentration might endanger a muscle or ligament. As she did so, she felt her bracelet warming to the point it could’ve burned anyone who touched and, slowly, the wounds begun to scar. _“What is your name?_ ”

_“Jidarr.”_

_“You’ll be fine Jidarr, now let’s get you out of here.”_

Luckily the hole was not warded against magic and quickly Morgana vanished and reappeared atop of the living graves, lying Jidarr gently on the ground. Around her, she could already see druids helping extract their friends. The moon was still high in the sky, and Morgana looked over the ridged walls. Still no alarm whatsoever, that was good, it would benefit an idea she had started to think about.

“Jidarr, are you all right?” The man from before knelled by his leader, the woman nodded.

“I’m am, my son, it seems fate has smiled at us today.” Jidarr’s now visible blue eyes looked at Morgana, who felt herself shivering. “You don’t like that word?”

“I hate it.”

Morgana could feel the magic moving in Jidarr’s core as she looked upon her, her eyes seemed clearer. “Yes, I see now why I saw a shadow, there is much inside you that is hidden and much more that is scarred. Perhaps we might help you.”

“I’m not seeking help.” Morgana replied.

“No.” Jiddar sounded sad. “You seek blood.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can see auras, yours glows now like a roaring fire, stinking of foul intentions.”

Now Morgana couldn’t help but smirk, the old woman had no idea. “Wouldn’t that be something good, if I can get rid of the Sarrum?”

Jidarr shrugged. “The Sarrum is only one man, he has children, family, loyal lords, soldiers and a people that have been lied to for many, many years. Killing him would hardly bring peace to Amata.”

Morgana clenched her fists. Luckily at that moment, Accolon climbed out of the hole, holding a little girl in his arms who as playing around with his long hair while he blushed in embarrassment.

“E-everyone is out, my lady.”

_Good, more time here and I might have thrown the woman back down there._

 

* * *

 

Morgause was pacing.

She couldn’t keep herself still as the moon gained ground and the stars shined over the sky under the songs of crickets and a very stubborn owl. There was a distinct squeeze inside her chest while she contemplated her sister’s lateness. Around her, the ten members of the Blood Guard that stayed behind were still as statues, and that seemed to only add to her discomfort.

“They should be here by now” She muttered, not really expecting an answer, the guard only spoke when spoken to.

Inwardly she tried to think back to her home, the Isle of the Blessed, where magic was strong and the shredded remains of her people lived in relative peace, but not even that was enough to squish the dreadful thoughts polluting her perception. They were in Amata after all, taken there by her sister’s insistence, and there was not one sorcerer alive who didn’t know about the Sarrum’s hate of magic.

What if her sister was captured? What if she was discovered and killed? Surely she would feel if Morgana was hurt, but then again, her sister was changed, different, more powerful since waking from her strange vision.

Maybe her worries were for nothing.

She had thought the same back at Camelot, thinking nothing would ever matter more than Uther’s destruction, but the sight of her sister’s unconscious body was still enough to make her flee.

Morgause lowered her gaze as if the Goddess could see her burning face. Family was not something she thought much about, ever since she was little, Morgause had been aware that her protection had been more important than a family. In the end, her fathers and mothers were Nimue and the remains of the Old Religion, her siblings had been fellow apprentices and learners, her love had been for the Goddess alone, and yet she had kept the bracelet that was her mother’s all the same.

“My Lady, please calm yourself” The voice came from one of the guards, but she hadn’t spoken to him, his advice was uncalled for. She spun around ready to scold the man when the sound of something approaching rose their camp.

At once the guard was on their feet, swords at hand, and Morgause readied herself for battle, only to see her sister’s face emerging from the shadows... And she was not alone.

One by one they emerged from the tree line, men, women, and children, ragged and filthy, bearing hollowed cheekbones and haunted eyes.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now, come” Her sister was saying, her voice gentle as she approached the guards. “See that they are cared for, quickly.”

Morgause stood her ground as the Blood Guard moved to obey. An old plump woman was held by two men, while an old man brought about two small children by their hands, their tiny faces were brave despite the tears. Soon packs were open and small pieces of bread and dried meat were being offered around the fire while Morgause questioned her sister.

“What have you done?”

“They are druids and the Sarrum was going to execute them.” Morgana explained stoically, and Morgause fumed.

“Couldn’t you have waited until the man was dead?”

“He was torturing and impaling them one by one each day, I couldn’t just leave them behind.”

“You have any idea what could have happened? You could’ve been discovered, you will be, surely there will be soldiers coming after us now.”

Morgana paused while looking into her knapsack, her shoulders tensing momentarily. “I did what I had to do.”

“It was too dangerous.”

“They needed help.”

“They are not worthy.”

“Everyone is worthy.”

“Not as much as you!” Morgause didn’t realize she had shouted until she felt the silence of the camp and the eyes falling on her, she didn’t care. “When you insisted on coming this way, you told me you would be careful, remember? You told me there would be no risks! And there you go taking prisoners from under the Sarrum’s nose! What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing happened” Morgana replied, that same icy face back in place, but now Morgause could see more as well, how her eyes were tired, her skin pale - more than usual - trembling. "Nothing happened and now we have the perfect way to get to the Sarrum as well.”

_Liar._

Morgause frowned. “You were still careless.”

A shrug was all she got as an answer.

Fuming, and still aware that the druids were watching their conversation she turned around and moved to a tree with her furs. If she knew having a sister was this tiresome she might have stayed in the Perilous Lands.


	7. Crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take another look at Camelot, and Morgana reaches her goal.

 

 

The change had been subtle, or perhaps she had been fooling herself until a morning where the drapes seemed to fall as suddenly and overwhelming as a dive into cold waters. The weary eyes, filled with resentment, the conversations that would cease the moment she appeared, and the small favors she was once blessed with now completely vanishing, all of it came to light before her eyes.

 

She never said a word about it of course, not to Arthur who now had a whole kingdom to look after, or to Merlin, who had an Arthur to look after. Guinevere would see to her duties and watch over Uther Pendragon, turning a deaf ear to the scant rumors running around. Her duty mattered much more, the kingdom mattered much more than the issues of a servant. She was still Guinevere through it all, and the words of kin and noble were never of her concern. So it was that as she watched her father’s killer seeming dead to the world as he laid in bed, that she simply pulled his furs up to his chin, and waited for Gaius to arrive.

 

Sitting down by the chair, she picked up her sewing, the task a pleasant distraction. There was always a need for clothing, but with winter, every woman would be commissioned for such work. Of course, she was already busy, but keeping busy these days had been a blessing in many ways, and so she went ahead, slowly letting the shirt take shape in her hands. She was so into it suddenly that she startled when the bed moved. Dark eyes darting to the king, she found him asleep, the noises from his mouth sounding too much like whimpers. Disturbed by the obvious nightmare that she had no way of ending, she sucked the sting from her thumb and bend down to look for her needle. Her hand brushed at something under the bed, and she stilled.

 

Grasping at the object, Gwen slowly revealed it under the candle light, the gold glimmering under her eyes like tempting sins.

 

It took a while for her to understand what she was holding, but eventually she did remember a feast in that same year, a celebration and a gift. It had been one of their last good times together.

 

Hand trembling, Gwen slowly traced the sharp blade. As a blacksmith's daughter she knew fine work when she saw it, and this was nothing but. While the golden handle and the red hue around the filigree made for a fine spectacle, the blade was much more interesting. The steel was well forged and clean, it probably kept its edge like few works. She was still holding it when the knock came to the doors and after careful thought she slipped into her basked. When the old man walked in to keep his watch for the night, he greeted Gwen with a gentle smile, walking towards the bed with his potions already at hand. He seemed none the wiser.

 

"Hello, Gaius."

 

"Good evening, Gwen." She eyed the stuff he was carrying and he quickly explained. “I thought of some other means to help the king. Hopefully some stimulant will do the work, it might have some effect on his disposition.”

 

“You think he might recover soon?” Despite the optimism she would display in front of Arthur, Gwen was skeptical about it.

 

They had been cheered when Uther spoke weeks ago, but the words now seemed more like a miracle than a proof of recovery. Most days the king was more like a puppet, getting up when prompted, eating when prompted and even bathing at the instructions of others, and by others, she meant mostly herself, the prince’s trustworthy servant. It was embarrassing at first, but Gwen was surprised to find she had grown used to most of it. Perhaps it was true that one could get used to anything in the proper time, even when her soul felt brittle and eager for hate.

 

“Considering he has spoken before and from what I’ve seen, he might.” Gaius said, mixing his potion with warm milk. “It is actually a common enough illness, where people who have suffered great trauma will shut down from the world around them.”

 

“An illness of the heart then?”

 

“Of the mind, to be more precise.” Gwen nodded. Since she wasn’t a physician herself she knew very little about the ways of the body, and so she abandoned her curious questions in fear they might sound silly. “You seem tired”

 

“Do I?” She smiled, and Gaius merely perked one of those wizened eyebrows. “I haven’t had much time for myself, surprisingly this takes more time than Morgana ever did. I’m not complaining, I just...”

 

“When was the last time you went home?”

 

She hesitated. “Not as long as you’re implying I’m afraid.”

 

“Go home, Gwen, everyone deserves some rest from the tasks of life.”

It was as if the words had summoned her exhaustion all at once and she found herself yawning in front of the man. Suddenly, every argument she wanted to use vanished and she nodded. Gwen retrieved her cloak and felt around her basket, the dagger was still there. Suddenly feeling more like a thief than herself, she took her leave, walking out of the chambers and down the halls. On the way she met a couple of girls scrubbing the floors, their voices silencing and then rising once she was out earshot.

She thought about going to Arthur to say her farewells, maybe give him the dagger, but at this time he was probably deep in conversation with his uncle, or probably stuck in the council chambers. Nothing she could do about it, she was tired and knew little of what meant to rule a kingdom. She walked to the kitchens instead, where Fal was scowling down a pot.

“Did it do you any harm?”

“Gwen!” His face broke into a grin, and she felt not so alone anymore. “Not at all, I’m afraid one of the lads ruined this for me, too much salt.”

“So you’re trying to water it down?”

“That is my idea yes, would you like some?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense, no one in Camelot will go hungry, I’ll just pour some of it with your usual plate.” He did so, pushing also a loaf of bread and a small piece of cheese, for witch she was grateful in thanking him. “Nonsense, you do well enough around here, this castle would be a mess without you taking charge.”

“T-thanks, but I didn't do anything, the chief steward...”

“That man wouldn't be able to find his own head if it wasn't attached to his neck, trust me, I know who has been given the orders." He winked and she felt herself blushing. It was never her intention to seem like someone in charge. She just wanted to help, and besides, no one seemed happy about it. She told Fal that, and he just shrugged. "People always need someone to vent about, and they often enough miss the target on that, don’t mind them.”

But she did.

Outside, the skies were turning dark, a chilly air forced her to pull her cloak tight around her frame, clutching her basket and food at the same time.

Winter was approaching now, and soon the town would flood with newcomers, all wanting shelter and food from the castle stores. Arthur had been worried about supplies lately, she remembered, supplies and war, there always seemed to be war or people wanting war. Blinking, she huddled herself together for a moment, feeling the cold beginning to seep into her skin. Although Gaius had the best of intentions she was suddenly reminded of why she had no wish to go home.

 

The small house had not been warm and kind for a long time now, and as time passed, less and less she regarded the place as a sanctuary of safety and happiness that it had been in her childhood. Her father was dead, Elyan was a knight riding the fields and too busy for a quiet family night. Not long ago, she would be invited to dine with her lady, but that was also blown away by dark wings of magic and evil. 

 

“Get in line peasant!” She followed the voice and was surprised to find a familiar face being pushed aside and away from the stable boy.

 

She knew that knight, of course. Sir Dommer was a burly man, tall and strong, who wore Camelot’s colors as well any knight. He seemed irritated and angry though as he shoved his reins on the boy’s hands and marched her way, not even bothering with her presence as he entered the fortress. On the snows, his own mount still waiting, Lancelot met her eyes and shrugged, his smile softening the gesture as he moved to care for his horse himself. She watched him with warm fascination and knew at least a little of what he must be feeling. He was just like her after all, a small person flying too high.

 

“It will get better soon.”

 

“I wasn’t really expecting it to be easy” He answered as he moved his mount to a lonely stall at the back, where the animal was unloaded. “I’m too low to be well regarded by the nobles and too high to be liked by the people.”

 

“The people?”

 

“They’d rather trust the other knights than the ones without a family name.” Lancelot still smiled. “They did start to change their minds when I saved their lives, but I’m not sure I can do that with the whole kingdom.”

 

“You probably saved the whole kingdom by helping Arthur” She patted the horse lightly, as Lancelot made sure he was comfortable and fed. Only then he took his own belongings in hand.

 

“That is true, maybe I should let everyone know.” He told her, and Gwen took a moment to take him in, the unruly curls, weary eyes and a beard that obviously had not been taken care of. A closer look even showed the spots of blood still clinging to his clothes and armor.

 

“That will rust.”

 

“I’ll see to it in the morning, we’ve been riding since dawn and I’m starving.”

 

“Of course.” She stopped and had to think back to when she first met the man, noble and kind and eager for a bright future. “Would you like to eat with me?”

 

“What?”

 

“I was just going home, I have some broth from the kitchens.” She raised her sewing basket, stopped, and changed for the pot of food so he could see it, blushing at her own clumsiness. “I would really like the company.”

 

“I-I...” He stopped short, and Gwen found herself prodding.

 

“It would be a great discourtesy for a knight to let a woman walk home alone.”

 

Lancelot smirked. “Now you’re just trapping me, my lady.”

 

“I’m not a lady.”

 

His smile was kind, sort of exasperated, the same smile she had seen on Merlin’s face when he thought Arthur was acting foolish. Somehow, Lancelot wore it much better, and much more respectfully.

 

Her home was dark and cold when they came to it, Lancelot having gallantly carried her things the short way there. Taking in the sight, Gwen studied the barred windows and door, while the forge that had once rung with her father’s hammering was now empty. After her father’s death, Uther had a new blacksmith brought into town, working with her father’s tools and in her father’s place. Both belonged to the king they told her, nothing was truly hers. She never harbored any ill towards the man though, his name was Colin, and he was polite and shy and, like many, he was now dead.

 

“You haven’t been here in a while, have you?”

 

“Not really.” Watching her home she knew right away that the floor needed to be swiped, the shelves dusted, and firewood gathered, but she had hardly any time to think about it.

 

Immediately, Lancelot moved to make a fire, and in instants she had bowls filled with a sweet-smelling food, thick with carrots, onions and chunks of meat, which they eat eagerly. It was awkward and strange at first, to have company for a meal again, but then Lancelot fell into a whole description of his adventures as a kid and soon enough, Gwen found herself laughing. She laughed because he fell into a lake for a single strawberry, she laughed when he chased a chicken down his village’s main street. She laughed telling him about her adventures with Merlin and Arthur. Then he told her about the time he found a horse.

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“He was right out in the field, no one was around!”

 

“But if someone owned it.”

 

“I know, but I just couldn’t resist, not really. It was a horse, out in the open, do you know how much a horse costs? To a kid, it just seemed like the first step into a dream.”

 

“I see, your mother must’ve had gray hairs all around the head.”

 

He chuckled. “Only a few.”

 

Blinking, Gwen forced her eyes to dart down to her empty bowl. Her house didn't feel so cold anymore, but maybe it was just the fire. “So, what happened to the horse?”

 

“My mother simply took him into town, he belonged to a knight who was traveling through. He had slept and forgot to tie it down.”

 

“Did he gave you a reward?”

 

“Not really.” He grimaced. “His reward was more like a scolding. He seemed angrier that we had touched the horse, than grateful that we found him. He threatened to hang my mother for theft before our elder intervened.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” She said but he just shook his head.

 

“It doesn’t matter, it served so I would know what kind of knight I wanted to become.” Gwen refrained from adding anything, but in her mind she imagined a small boy, wincing before a man’s harsh voice, his thoughts wandering into a silent vow of his own.

 

She saw his eyes going to his sword, and she saw the spots of blood forming a crust around the blade. Getting up, she took his bowl and wandered. “So, you wanted to be a knight even before...” She trailed off, not wanting to bring back memories. She knew his story, knew the tragedy of his life, but Lancelot didn’t seem to mind.

 

“A part of it I suppose, at the time it was a boy’s dream, but after losing my village, well, it became a man’s duty.”

 

“A man’s duty” Gwen smiled. “Morgana once told me that a man’s duty was only a fancy way to keep women away from the fun.”

 

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling enveloped in wrinkles, but remembering her friend made her eyes fall to the ground. “You miss her?”

 

Gwen shook her head. “I failed her.”

 

“How so?”

 

She opened her mouth, but the words never came, she only knew that somehow her friend had fallen to the evil of magic and sorcery right under her nose, and by the time she realized what was happening she had been too afraid to do anything. It was too late, she kept telling herself. Maybe the rumors about her weren’t the reason she was so bothered, or maybe it was all at once, she thought of the dagger she found not a moment ago and suddenly everything came tumbling down into her mind.

 

“You say it is a man’s duty to bear the killing and the fighting, well, then what would you say is a woman’s duty?” She asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “When I first came to Camelot, I was so scared. I was young then, barely of age. I have no idea how my father arranged such a thing, but one day I was brought to Uther and he bestowed upon me to look after his ward. I was instructed by the chief steward and presented to her. I had no idea what to expect, I was afraid she would reject me, but she just took my hands and smiled.”

 

“She was very charming.”

 

“She was.” Gwen admitted. “Before I knew it, I was telling her what I liked to do, how I watched my father on the forge and how I played with my dolls, and yet when I saw her magic the first thing I did was tell Gaius. I didn’t talk to her, I didn’t try to, I saw something dangerous and did something about it.”

 

“I think you put too much blame on yourself, my lady.”

 

“And you don’t, sir?”

 

Lancelot cocked his head to the side. He touched the pads of his fingers over his sword and licked his lips. “The men we were sent after, they were desperate men, and those, I suppose, are more dangerous than common evil. They were hungry and scared, but after trying to help them I also learned that they wouldn’t surrender and would keep hurting people.”

 

“You killed them.” She surmised, without judgment or damnation. Death was not something she balked at. Many times she was a victim of it, many times she had seen executions and many times she had seen Lancelot and Arthur killing. Now she wondered.

 

“Killing is hard, it should be hard. The father of my village used to call it an evil act. I don’t think it stops being an evil act no matter how you justified it, and yet sometimes it is necessary.” He took the sword, and Gwen watched the crusts of blood slowly falling away from the steel as he cleaned it up. “Sometimes there are bad people in the world, people who won't change and that insist on doing harm or using their power for evil. When that happens, we have to stand our ground and take their lives. I think it’s part of being a knight, to bear that burden when needed.”

 

“It seems a heavy one, for any heart.”

 

“It can be, but if your intentions are noble, if your reasons are good, then we can overcome it.” He turned to her. “So you just have to think, did you do the right thing? Do you regret it? And more important, can you bear it?”

 

* * *

 

Sybil of Amata had grown up in a house with two young brothers, and so, she had known from a young age that at some point she would be offered to someone else to be married and bear children. Her husband would be a knight, a lord, someone wealthy and powerful, and she would stand at his shadow overseeing his castle and spreading her legs whenever he called upon her.

 

It was her destiny, and it had been written long before she could walk and speak, and Sybil had known she would fulfill it to the best of her abilities.

 

As it happens, knowing your destiny and following it were two very different matters, something she understood the first time the Sarrum of Amata laid eyes on her from his honorable seat, right by her father’s side. She was on the cusp of her seventeenth summer when he took her hand in marriage, stumbling to her bed, sweaty, flushed and dark-eyed, entering her and finishing before she felt anything more than fear and cold.

 

Now, it was early morning and she had just come from her son’s chambers with something terrifying coiled deep in her guts. She allowed her maids to dress her, barely paying attention, but she noticed they were choosing her gold velvet gown, trimmed with snakes that run down her arms as if afraid of what her face might do. Her hair was stuck into a long braid, under a dark iron tiara that was the symbol of her position. When ready, she slowly walked down the stairs, not out of fear but to gain time and keep her composure as she passed long bleak hallways which seemed to beg for light, quietly entering the great hall.

 

The Sarrum of Amata, Guardian of the Land, Bane of Sorcerers and her husband was sitting upon his high seat, with his eyes looking down from the clouds of a storm.

 

She knew of the man who was shaking, held tight by two soldiers in front of the Sarrum. His begging was almost impossible to understand as he shuddered and stuttered on his knees. From the corner, a bare-chested man wearing a long hooded mask approached. The begging turned into whining as the Captain’s hand was seized and stretched over the block. Pursing her lips, Sybil idly wondered where the days had gone when watching a man screaming because of his missing limb would’ve shocked her, but rarely something shocked her these days, not since the first time she watched the Sarrum decorating his walls.

 

“Has any news come from the search parties?”

 

“No, my king” Albin, more like a dog than a person, answered. “It’s still early to tell though, the prisoners had a night and a whole morning as a head start.”

 

“And my captain has already received the just punishing for his failure.” The Sarrum pointed out. “It is imperative that the prisoners are brought back and we find the responsible for this. I won’t tolerate the foul stench of magic intruding in these lands.”

 

“It won’t happen, my king”

 

Inwardly Sybil both pitied and hated the young lad. Her husband’s interest in him was born from his displeasure with his own child, something she had no idea how to remedy at all or if she even should, considering the many bruises Albin had taken instead of her son.

 

 

“My king.” She spoke as the hall fell silent, her face schooled to show nothing but deference. “May I have words?”

 

She watched him studying her, perhaps wondering what she was doing far from her chores, or maybe not. It was always hard to tell with the man, but the fact that he didn’t rebuff her publicly didn’t go over her. As she followed him to a secluded corner away from the guards, she remembered his wrath that morning, something she had heard from her private chambers. Having a whole clan of druids escaping had done her no favors, and yet, Sybil felt unable to stop at that point.

 

“I’ve come from speaking to our son.” She stated. “I came to question you about his arm.”

 

“The lad was a complete failure.”

 

“How so?” Sybil knew she was pushing now, her husband disliked being questioned, but answers needed to be given. She needed to know.

 

“I wanted to put him on the patrol sent to apprehend the prisoners, but your son had the audacity of questioning my orders, worst, he dared suggest mercy.”

 

“And for that, you broke his arm?”

 

Sybil was doing everything to rein in her emotions, as her husband scoffed. “If anything the pain will bring the boy some metal, perhaps he might finally show some guts in the training yard. His suffering will teach him.”

 

She looked away, so he wouldn’t see how his words affected her as she remembered her other children. Her eldest, luckily, had always been good with sword and spear to be left alone, and these days he was away, sailing his own ship against the saxons. Her daughter was gone as well, safe in a keep of her own, but her youngest was a sweet thing, who enjoyed embroidery and singing and Sybil felt stupid for not seeing this day coming.

 

“Perhaps we might find him a suitable tutor then.” She suggested, knowing the matter would fall to his steward, and she might even have a say on it if the Sarrum gets too distracted impaling some poor soul. “Someone to make him into a suitable prince.”

 

Maybe it had been something in her tone, maybe she slipped, or maybe he had simply woken up in a far more unreasonable mood than usual, but when she saw his calculating smirk making an appearance, Sybil felt cold.

 

“Perhaps you’re right, my wife, perhaps it is time for our youngest son to have a proper education. I shall see to it personally.”

 

Sybil licked her lips, she feared a punishment now, she feared she might have to retreat to her chambers with a bruise, and yet she spoke all the same. She didn’t know what she would speak, but she would try anyway, and so she called his name, froze under his scrutiny and heard the hurried steps of the stewards coming their way.

 

“My king, one of the patrols has returned, they have a prisoner with them.”

 

The Sarrum didn’t turn around. “One prisoner?”

 

“A witch, sire.”

 

Sybil watched his delight and frustration, all swirling together into a dangerous mix as her husband turned away from her with a scowl, giving the orders that the woman be properly shackled and brought inside at once.

 

For her part, Sybil remained in the shadows, watching her husband climbing the steps to his throne as the heavy oak doors were parted to let in the men of Amata.

 

His patrol was tattered, she saw at once, their clothes were covered in blood, hiding the snake sigil on their chests, and their numbers few. The guards themselves were weary of the procession, while Perwen, the captain of the guards, stood at the foot of the dais, signaling a stop. The men parted, and amidst them stood a woman, shackled with those special chains her husband was so proud of.

 

Once, long ago, when she was still naive about her boundaries, she had questioned his use of blood magic to retain his prisoners, wondering about the hypocrisy of it and that had cost her a tooth.

 

“My king.” The man said, his voice muffled by the helmet, neither he nor his men seemed familiar to her, but she never made a point of watching over the newcomers. “We bring you the sorceress who claims to have freed the prisoners.”

 

“Well done, sir.” The Sarrum commended now. “How did you find her?”

 

“We came upon them in the woods, the fools lit a fire to ward off the cold. The witch sent the druids away my king and stayed behind to fight us. As you see she took down many men before we could overwhelm her.”

 

“You did well and shall be properly rewarded, I assure you.” The Sarrum said, turning now to the prisoner. Sybil made a mental note to see if this captain could be useful in some way. “So, witch, what do you have to say for yourself?”

 

The woman’s eyes darted around the room, a clear shiver passing through her body. She was barefooted and in rags, her hair a tangled mess that more resembled a bird’s nest. Sybil didn’t need to think about what the men might have done, for a closer look told her the woman was beautiful, with green pale eyes widening when she pursed her lips. Strange. 

 

“You have defiled my will, freed my prisoners, but I still might show you mercy if you deliver the rest of the druids.” The Sarrum said, trying to sound calm through the lie.

 

“Y-you promise?” The woman asked, rubbing her hands together.

 

“I’m a man of my word.” At the small nod, the Sarrum leaned forward resting his elbows above his knees. Her hands kept rubbing together, almost seamlessly as the girl whispered something, something that made Sybil frown. “Come again? Where did you say they are?”

 

Sybil stepped back because suddenly she realized what was wrong, she realized that her strangeness was because she saw no fear in those eyes at all, nothing at least. Before she could shout a warning though, the witch’s hands suddenly stopped rubbing together. Sybil felt a pulse of heat blinding her for a moment and when she recovered, it was only to see one of the guards covered in flames, his screams rising around the room as he threw himself on the ground in despair, his hair and skin melting from his bones while his eyes boiled in the sockets.

 

Sybil only barely realized she was screaming, falling on her arse and crouching until the wall hit her back.

 

“Take her!” Her husband shouted, recovering from the shock and the search party drew their swords, but instead of striking the witch they drove their weapons through the guard, hacking and slashing at her husband's protectors.

 

Sybil saw Albin leaping to the fray, the youth going straight at the woman who was banging the doors shut with a wave of her hands, when one man stepped between them, his sword raised to parry the first strike, then the second. Then the witch raised her hand and her husband’s pet was sent flying against the wall. There was a noise like crackling wood when his body hit the stone, and he fell, leaving behind a trail of crimson on the gray stone.

 

Unsheathing his own blade now, the Sarrum gritted his teeth and got ready to fight. “Guards!! GUARDS!!!” he shouted hoarse as the fight abated, soon his men were all dead, and the search party was closing in on his sides, their helmeted faces turning his way, but never moving.

 

“Don’t worry, no one is listening to you, my lord.” The woman spoke mockingly, the words sending a chill through Sybil as her eyes darted for the door.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Me?”

 

The sound of her chuckle made her stop, her hands grasping the door handle which refused to open. Turning around, Sybil found she had little choice but to watch over her shoulder as the witch lowered herself on the ground and picked up Albin’s sword, the edge of her dress soaking in the blood. “I’m your reckoning, sire, taken form to punish your sins.”

 

The Sarrum of Amata laughed, her husband. “Sins? And what would those be?”

 

“The torture and murder of innocents for starters.”

 

“You’re talking about those aberrations and their so-called magic.” Sybil felt the wood being pounded from the other side and stepped back, someone was coming, they would knock the door down and save them. “Those were not sins, and I’m sure I’ll be rewarded in the afterlife.”

 

“Not sins? Oh, but they were, and there are so many others. The way you treat your people, neglecting their needs, starving them and leaving them in poverty.” Her voice was so cold, Sybil wondered if there was ice filling her insides. “As for your supposed reward, well, I hope it is enough to take you beyond our little time together without falling to madness.”

 

“Try me, whore.”

 

The witch threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.”

 

The door was still shaking on its hinges, but it showed no signs of opening. In the back of her mind she thought about magic and felt a knot of cold fear taking over. The witch would kill them, she and her husband, and then her son. Looking back into the throne room, she watched the searching party as they moved to form a circle around the witch and the Sarrum.

 

“What is this? What are you doing?”

 

“I thought you would feel more comfortable if our duel was properly overseen.” The woman said, ripping the side of her dress so her legs could move.

 

“A duel? Against a filthy cheating sorceress?”

 

“If it makes any difference to you, I promise not to use my magic.”

 

Sybil of Timor was not a proud woman.

 

She had been sold in exchange for swords, ships and promises, her fate was decided from the moment she was born and in her marriage she learned the proper way to hide her feelings, to hide any wounds, seen or not. Now, as she watched her husband hesitating, and the gleam of those pale green eyes, she also recognized her only chance of survival. Swallowing her fear, she walked on trembling legs, throwing herself to her knees outside the ring of men, they jumped as if surprised by her presence, but Sybil didn’t let her emotions show.

 

“Please, spare the people in the castle, I beg of you!”

 

She knew sorcerers were never to be trusted. It was taught to her from childhood, to stay away from the sinners who thought themselves gods in this world. Demons in human flesh, drunk on their power, and yet, in the silence that followed, the only insults came from her husband.

 

“You bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

She ignored him. “Please, allow me to surrender the castle, don’t harm anyone.”

 

She held her breath, waiting, perhaps for her skin to burn, perhaps for the touch of a blade, and then… “Bors, take her to my sister, tell her we won’t have the need to fight.”

 

A man disengaged from the ring, and Sybil felt herself being pulled to her feet, not unkindly. The witch’s eyes were distant as if she wasn’t even alive in this world, only her silent husband seemed to matter. She mumbled her thanks anyway, courtesies couldn’t do any harm.

 

“You’ll regret this, woman!” The Sarrum barked, and Sybil hoped more than ever that her decision was right, even as she walked towards the great doors, her husband’s parting words echoing at her back. “You as well, whore.”

 

She could hear the smirk on the witch's voice “Perhaps.”

 

As the doors closed at her back, Sybil heard a distinguished chant and the following scream of her husband. It seemed the witch had lied about not using her magic. Sybil couldn't bring herself to care, but sent a prayer to heavens all the same. May God have mercy on his soul.

 


	8. Aftermath

* * *

 

When he was very young, just learning how to use a sword in combat, Accolon had been taught his prayers and the comfort of the Goddess. The words should be repeated every night before sleep and every day by morning, no matter how tired, wounded or busy he might be.

That morning was not different.

He knelt before his bed and clutched his sword in his bare hands, embracing the smooth feeling of the leather covered handle. The original warrior priests had their handles made from the Rowan Tree, but his was simple oak. He was proud of it nonetheless. When his prayers were finished, simple as they might be, Accolon blinked, rising from his knees. Slowly, he put on his shirt and his mail, then tied the laces of his outer coat, bringing the hood and the mask up to hide his features. The warrior priests didn’t have faces, after all. They had no names or identities. They served and that was all.

At least, that was how it was supposed to be.

For three nights now the young priest stood guard in front of his mistress’ door, as many times as he could. The Bloodguard had been sworn to her protection, and the High Priestess wouldn’t admit nothing more than perfection while her sister recovered.

It had been three days since Lady Morgana had been put in those chambers and only Lady Morgause could enter. His last memory had been of a small woman, huddled atop of a throne in front of a pool of blood and gore, the last he heard her voice was when she worded the Sarrum’s crimes to the man himself.

In all his years sworn to the order, Accolon had never seen such a horrid affair.

Lady Morgana had smiled upon defying the Sarrum to a duel, mocking him by breaking her promises of not using magic. He remembered shaking when she finally took his hands, and then gulping when his groin had exploded in blood. At that moment, the man had been nothing but a sobbing mess, screaming his pain through his own hall, under the cold green eyes of his mistress, except she had been no longer smiling, but cold, deadly so. Now, it was almost as if the monster had gone away, leaving an empty shell behind, a shell that sat by the window and watched the sun. Of course, Accolon knew better than to think a monster had done that, at the least from what little he knew of the Lady Morgana.

It had started in that day when she asked for his sword, and then asked for his ability, as meager as it was, to practice her fighting. He was not the best fighter of course, his brothers were all better and the life of a warrior priest was hardly made only of battle and war, although Uther Pedragon had closely made it so.

He could remember him falling in the dirty, after receiving a kick to his chins, and her chuckle above him. “You remind me of someone I knew, he had this same problem you have, always thinking your opponent thinks like you.”

Confusion must have shown on his face before she spoke. “When you’re facing your opponents, you’re not thinking about what they might do, you’re thinking about what you would do in their place. After I realized that, it became easy to beat you, haven’t you noticed?” He had nodded shyly, avoiding her eyes and remembering his latest defeats. “You’re wondering how I learned to fight.”

He took a new fighting stance and nodded as she did the same.

“Well, when I was little I always wanted to be a knight, you see? My father used to read many stories about them and I loved every and each one, although it was always infuriating that they were all men.” A movement, a faint, he could see now that she was right, he was wondering about his next move, instead of hers. He had to learn about her if he hoped to be any good. “Naturally, my favorite story was about the Knight of the Lake, it was an old tale, about a young girl using a magical armor that granted her many abilities.”

He lazily circled around her, falling into a rhythm as she parried his blows.

“Of course, women couldn’t be knights. I was always afraid I would never be allowed to be one, but my father, he just smiled at me. I had forgotten how handsome he was when he smiled, how gentle.” She stepped aside, and they made a pause, her eyes seeming truly happy as she remembered. “A knight protects the weak. A knight gave out justice and truth. A knight should be brave. He told me that if I were to be all those things, he saw no reason why I couldn’t be one.”

She looked down, brushing a coal lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think he expected me to follow that path though, my father, I think he might have thought it a child’s whims. Be that as it may, he did find me a sword and someone to teach me. I practiced everyday until he died and I came to Camelot, then Uther forbid it altogether. I had to do it in secret.”

“Alone?” The question caught him by surprise as much as it did her. It wasn't the content, but the fact that he had let it out of his lips in the first place. 

“No, an arrogant idiot used to help me out, the one with the same problem you have.”

“Oh...”

“He also would let his guard down” And before Accolon could do anything, he was on the ground again, with the Lady’s laughter filling his ears as he looked into the night skies.

Not all of their encounters had gone that well of course.

One night, after exchanging harsh words with her sister, he had been battered to the ground and gained bruises that ached for days. He was used to bruises though. On the day before the killing of the Sarrum, she did almost the same, except she knelt by his side at the end with an expression he couldn’t read on her face.

“Stand still” and hearing the command he did just that, watching her lips, cracked from the cold, whispering the words of the healing spell. Her eyes had glowed and her bracelet warmed, before every tiny scrap of pain disappeared from his body. “That should be enough.”

As he watched her leaving, Accolon couldn’t help calling, even if out of line. “T-thank you.”

Lady Morgana had stopped, nodded over her shoulder and then disappeared.

Now, Accolon was walking to the high tower to stand vigil, until he came upon one of his brothers. Bors ordered him to the Sarrum’s solar and, without question, he obeyed, standing there alone until the High Priestess Morgause came in. She was followed by a elegant middle aged woman, wearing a dark red gown, and a ruby net above her graying hair. The same woman that Lady Morgana had let go on that horrid day and who negotiated the castle’s surrender.

“Lady Sybil” Morgause greeted the woman who used to be the Sarrum’s wife. What she received in return was a barely seen tilt of the head. “Don’t worry, you won’t be killed”

“I would hope, considering I made a deal concerning my life.” The woman said. “After the rumors about what happened to my husband, I started wondering when my time would come.”

“You don’t sound so sad.”

Accolon blinked, watching the woman from under his hood, her posture was as stiff as a log, but nothing in her demeanor told him she was grieving. Indeed, the Queen of Amata’s answer was the lifting of an eyebrow.

“I don’t think anyone could love that man, anyone but my eldest that is. Our marriage was a convenience, my father wanted Tir Mor’s borders to be safe, the Sarrum wanted our boats, it was easy to see where the negotiations would go.”

“So you don’t mind that he was killed by blood lusted witches?”

She blinked, as composed as a statue, not offering an answer. “I received assurance that the household would remain safe.”

“And I shall honor that, despite what you may think of my kind.“ Maybe Lady Morgause could read auras or something, because she was the picture of confidence, sitting in the chair by the fire. For Accolon, Lady Sybil seemed like a person used to hide her thoughts. “Well, since that is dealt with, I would like to talk about the future.”

“Has Amata called its vassals yet?”

“No quite” Morgause answered, offering a cup of wine. The Queen declined. “You see, we’ve been good in keeping everything tied up so far, the news of your husband’s death is currently traveling by horse in the best case. The fact is, we came here to kill your husband, and we did that, and now, I need your reputation and leadership.”

“Really?” The Queen seemed surprised.

“Really, I need you to write some letters for me, declaring you ascendance to the throne of Amata after the tragic incident that befell your husband.”

“You wish to avoid resistance in your escape.” The Queen declared and Lady Morgause didn’t care to hide it. After a pause, the woman nodded. “Very well, I shall write your letters, if you guarantee the safety of my children, the staff and the village and if you swear to leave my lands immediately.”

“Done.”

And as Accolon watched the two woman shaking hands, he wondered what he should do in the small break he would have before his guard of lady Morgana.

He traveled the hallways slowly. After the power of the Rowan Staff ceased animating the dead army, the castle felt unnaturally empty. Heading straight to the library, Accolon stumbled upon a frail looking man, his skinny lanky build shaking at his approach. Accolon did his best not to laugh, it would be improper after all. He had been taught to never look down upon a man, since he himself was a servant, but still, it was funny watching the man hurrying to do his bidding.

Later, he knocked on the closed door and entered.

As usual, Lady Morgana was looking outside the window, still wearing her bloodied gown. He wondered if she even cared at that point and he hoped she did. The Lady intrigued him in how much she could change from a moment to the next. His heart beating extremely loud, Accolon deposited the book on the table by her side, bowed deeply and moved away.

He exited the room and stood in his post until the light of morning crested over the hills.

* * *

 

The chambers must’ve belonged to someone important, but that was as far a Morgana could bring her thoughts.

She remembered something similar long ago, when Uther died and she felt his pain and the utter emptiness that his death brought her. This was not the same, but the Sarrum’s scream still curled around her guts like a poisonous snake.

And so she sat down by the window, feeling the wind and the sun and immersing herself in that small moment where she could feel nothing. In the horizon, the rising sun painted Amata in a dozen different colors, almost making that horrible country look beautiful, but that was not what she was looking for. No, she was looking for answers, answers to questions that left her awake at night, but she didn’t mind that. The nightmares were worse. She had thought that killing the Sarrum would bring her peace, but the aftermath left only the lingering taste of blood in her tongue and a fleeting joy that disappeared as soon as she realized the extension of her wrath.

Every time she closed her eyes, she would see red, the red of the blood seeping into the floor, the red splattering against her rags, the red that took her vision and allowed her to break bones with a tilt of her head.

Grimacing, her eyes darted towards the book atop the table, her hand moving to touch the old leather and golden letters, wondering if the words inside would feel as truthful as they did in her childhood. She was still thinking about it when the door opened and her sister came in.

“Good morning” She answered, watching Morgause sitting in a chair by her side.

“How are you feeling?”

Morgana felt an urge to laugh at the question. “You’re wondering if I’m still here? Fret not, dear sister, my mind is still my own, I don’t exactly feel amazing though”

“That I could’ve guessed.”

Morgana watched her sister for a moment, the bags under her eyes and her pursed lips, feeling a stab of guilty. She remembered how lost she felt after the kill, how she had wished for nothing more than to curl into herself and hide from the world. She still wished for it.

“I don’t know exactly what that man did to you, but after looking through his books, I can take a wild guess” Morgause said, tentatively, almost afraid. “You did the right thing.”

She blinked.

It had been a few days and still, the rage boiled and squirmed inside her like an angry beast. His death had not erased it, nor had it quenched it. If she allowed it, the memories of his hands would still be there, the hunger, and thirsty, the violation, they were ingrained in her mind forever, and yet, hearing those words from Morgause caused her to stop short of answering.

_You did the right thing._

_Did I?_ She questioned, softly, coldly. _What had been right? The part where I made him scream? The part where he was sobbing? Or the part where I took his life? Was it right that I made him suffer?_ She shivered, and suddenly it was like her father was watching her from beyond, his face engulfed in shadows so she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

_What am I thinking?_

_...killing things mends a broken heart?_

And suddenly, she wasn’t within those chambers with Morgause, but in a forest, condemned by a man with blue eyes, in a throne room, cutting her ties for the last time. Suddenly, Mordred was walking away from her, and betrayal became the air she breathed.

“I still remember when I got this.” Her sister’s voice pulled her away from the memories, to find that she was referring to their mother's bracelet. “It was at night. I remember it was night. Winter had come and the goddess had sent a fever to end my life.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Morgause pursed her lips. “In your other world, did I ever tell you about our mother?”

Morgana turned away, keeping her back to her sister. In her newly gained memories she could see the gentle woman above her crib, a smile crinkling the skin beside her eyes. Her voice had been soft, like velvet. _Goodbye, little fairy._ Tentatively, Morgana let the memory go. “You told me she was kind.”

“She was, or at least that was what I was told.” There was dry humor painting her sister’s voice. “In truth, I only met her for half a night.”

It was with a long, baited breath, that Morgana let the pause settled between then, never asking and yet hoping that Morgause would continue. After a while, she did.

“At the time, my mistress was raising me to become a priestess, teaching me all the secrets and ways in which to keep the Old Religion alive. We would practice and study everyday, never settling in one place for long.” A pause, a beat. “She took me to visit Helva once, it was pretty, I never saw a place where magic was practiced in the open. That was before I learned anyone using magic there was basically a slave, working for protection.”

Morgana remembered Helva, bits of pieces of her own attack on the city, painted with blood and restless questions.

“It was there that I caught a fever, something that couldn’t be healed. The will of the Goddess, my mistress called. I spent days in bed, burning and shitting water. I thought my death was certain until she arrived.” Morgana fidget, wondering if her new memories would match the date. “My mistress had sent a message, and as a result this strange woman came to us. She came to my side, she spoke to me, about love, about duty and about a dream, where I would’ve family once more. Where I would live in a world free, where I wouldn’t need to run. I don't remember much else, but I do remember her and my mistress screaming at each other. It was only when I got better that I learned she had used the Cup of Life."

A soft silence fell upon them, loaded with questions and hurt that neither had allowed themselves to feel in a long time. Finally, the younger sister shifted and allowed herself to watch Morgause.

Inhaling a shuddering breath, her sister met her gaze. “When you accused me of leaving you, I know how if feels like. Our mother came to me in my time of need, and then she left. It was only in the following morning that I was told of her identity, and I never felt so hurt. I really wished to never think about it again.”

“Morgause...”

“I don’t regret my choices, in this world or the old one. I can’t, but I do want you to know that I love you, no matter what.”

“I know.”

Was her sister asking forgiveness? For what? Morgana doubted she was even worthy of giving such thing, but she took Morgause’s hand anyway.

 _Would mother have approved of what I did?_ She thought then, glancing at her sister, the tears falling from her eyes so new, and so raw. She wanted to cry as well, cry for the little girl she had been, and the little girl that Morgause had been. For the little boy that grudgingly danced with her in Camelot, so long ago. She wanted to cry for a broken family, and for the crimes of evil people. She wanted to cry because she was so horribly tired, and horribly sad. She cried because she might be a monster, when she had never wanted to be anything but the opposite.

 _I love you so much_. Her mother spoke from the fog of her memories. A hand caressed her cheek, it was big and warm, and her smile never wavered even when the tears began to fall. _I don’t think I will be there to watch you grow, but by the Goddess, I give you my blessing in whatever your future hold, and my eternal love. Goodbye, little fairy._

On her table, the book remained closed, the sigil of the Knight of the Lake bathed in morning light.

* * *

 


	9. Look Ahead

  
Lady Elaine’s keep was nothing more than an old roman house built up with wood and stone. It stood like a bloated uneven fortress by the river-bend, surrounded by a tall palisade and a village of short stunted hovels.  
   
Leading her column of riders through the main street, Morgana allowed herself to study the reaction to her arrival. Wide eyes stared at her from each and every corner, women made a sign against evil, children stopped playing, and men clenched their fists at their passage. She knew they were expected, riders had seen their approach a whole day ago and she would be foolish not to be weary of traps, but the reaction from the commoners still brought up a bitter sort of resignation. Looking behind her, the sorceress watched Accolon and the eleven other blood guards tailing her. With her magic, she was sure they could beat anything Lady Elaine could throw at them, but the idea of fighting had began to loose its appeal in recent days.

She didn’t need more enemies. She had plenty of those already, both around her and in her mind.  
   
Riding through the village and under the portal, her party was greeted by a score of green boys and old men, clutching their weapons close inside a thin line of shields. In front of them stood also a lanky steward, who bowed wearily towards her.  
   
“I’m here to have words with your lady.” Morgana declared without pause.  
   
The steward nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice, but to his credit, he didn’t back away. “M-my Lady Elaine will receive you alone, under the rights of hospitality.”  
   
The rights of hospitality. It was a protection that depended a lot on the people involved these days, but a custom that both the Old and New religion seemed to relay on. Knowing that, Morgana nodded, wording her promise of safety loud and clear. When that was done she nodded towards her guards, climbing down from her saddle and steadying her feet after the long journey.  
   
Following the steward inside the keep, Morgana became even more aware of its mixed origin. From the pale smooth masonry, to the broken pictures and decorated stone floors, everything showed the signs of the mighty empire that was said to once rule over Albion. She remembered very well of times when Uther complained about the difficult in reproducing theses constructions. Camelot itself had been raised with magic long ago, but after the purge her guardian spent years trying to mimic the romans.  
   
Finally, Morgana passed through a hallway covered with wooden walls and through a portal of high columns, into what she thought once might have been a open yard. Now it was serving as a great hall with a high furze roof sustained by thick beams of recently cut wood. Almost shyly, she was escorted between empty tables, under torches and animal skulls, with Lady Elaine’s blue ox glaring at her from the mail of her guards. The Lady herself stood above a high chair, wearing a thick wool dress, heavy fur cloak and leather gloves, with one of her hands resting on a splint. The only jewelry she wore was a heavy silver chain around her neck and, contrary to what Morgana expected, she was not an old woman, in fact, she could be Morgana’s age, with plump cheeks and shrewd eyes.  
   
“Lady Elaine” Morgana greeted, offering a courtesy.  
   
“Lady Morgana, daughter of Gorlois” The noble said, her tone causing Morgana to purse her lips. “Or is it Uther now? Many rumors have been traveling across the land this past month.”  
   
“And I would be glad to shed light on such rumors, my lady.”  
   
“That seems like a reasonable offer.” Morgana watched the woman’s glare and once again reminded herself of her education, of the many people she used to receive in Camelot long ago. Mean, arrogant, rude, she had met them all, and never allowed them to get under her skin. “Everyone knew for some time that Cenred had a sorceress lover, Essetir was never too keen on following laws so no one questioned that rumor.”  
   
“Are you wondering if the sorceress was I?” Morgana frowned. “That would be a wrong assumption, the one you speak of was my sister, Morgause.”  
   
“Morgause?” The Lady smirked. “Well, it wasn’t you then, but it is still your blood we have to thank for Essetir’s lack of armies and the end of what little order it used to possess.”  
   
“With all due respect, my lady.” Morgana said, wondering how much was actually due. “Cenred had ambitions of conquest for far longer than my sister and I were brought into the picture. He was famous for his raids against Anglia, Mercia and Camelot up until his uneasy alliance with Uther.”  
   
“But still, it was only after your sorceress sister appeared that he marched Essetir’s armies west, and not one man came back after that.”  
   
Morgana felt the silence fall down on the great hall and allowed her face to fall briefly.  
   
“A consequence of war, my lady, any man who goes to battle knows the price he might pay.”  
   
“Indeed” Lady Elaine looked down upon her, her face unchanged as she finally asked. “What do you seek here?”  
 

She did her best to avoid the sinking feeling she had from showing in that hall and in front of those people. She had known, coming here, that rejection was one of the best outcomes of the journey. Politics, its power, was held by a soft balance between showing respect and strength, demands and compromise.  
   
“I seek your allegiance, my lady.” Elaine showed the principle of a frown, Morgana pressed on. “At present moment, the throne of Essetir is empty, ripe for the taking from any man with a army and ambition.”  
   
“And you would have us bow to you?”  
   
“I would have you bow to yourselves before someone else arrives.”  
   
Morgana watched, fascinated, as the woman’s eyes widened, her answer taking a long time to come, so long she felt startled when a man suddenly approached her side, whispering quickly into her ear. Lady Elaine blinked, recomposing herself immediately before attempting an answer.  
   
“Essetir was always a chaotic land, our kings are payed by our taxes and we are left alone to rule ourselves, why should we care if another one comes along?”  
   
“Because as much as Cenred cared nothing for ruling a kingdom beyond hiring his mercenaries to keep the peace, he held his own sort of honor. The man that will come does not.” Morgana moved a little ahead, watching the people around the room. “It is of Lot of Anglia that I speak.”  
   
She felt the rush of starting conversations and didn’t allow it to happen.  
   
“Lot is related to Cenred by blood, he has an savage and bloodthirsty army and is ruthless in his ways. Everyone knows his reputation, how he piles skulls and leaves trails of corpses in his wake. You really think he would allow you or any other small lords to rule without paying a high price?”  
   
Morgana allowed her words to linger for an instant. In her memories she remembered the rumors of Essetir becoming a dangerous land, from where people fled and where any threat to Lot met a horrible end. After what seemed a very long pause, Morgana watched Lady Elaine fidgeting in her seat, the old man came to whisper in her ear again and after a brief exchange, where the woman’s piercing glare not once left her, she finally spoke again.  
   
“Very well, Lady Morgana, you and your men might stay for the night as guests, while I take these news into consideration.”  
   
Feeling almost light headed for that small triumph, Morgana bowed again and followed a steward to her quarters. On the way she once more wondered about her decision. It was almost a week since she finally decided on this course of action and still her doubts lingered on Amata. They lingered on her travels through a land of tyrants, lingered on the rightfulness of her justice and the fear of it. Thoughts went to the Sarrum’s wife and her household, to the words of an old druid and to late meals with her sister.  
   
“What do you mean you don’t want to attack Camelot?” Morgause had questioned, not in a shout, but a calm query that demanded an explanation.  
   
“Have you ever wondered why we failed sister? Why our kind never truly managed to rise against Uther? Not truly?” Morgana questioned. “All those years and everyone was happy to lower their heads in submission. The druids just wanted a corner of the world to be at peace and the renegades, they burned as fast as embers under the rain."  
   
 “There are as many views of magic as there are sorcerers out there Morgana, you cannot expect everyone to agree with each other about certain things.”  
   
“I’m aware of it, however, things change if we could give them all something to defend.”  
   
Morgause frowned. “Isn’t the fact that we’re on the edge of extinction enough to fight back?”  
   
“We need more than that.” Morgana had told her, leafing through a book at her lap and pausing before the drawing of the fearsome lady knight of her youth, her spear poised to defend the innocents against a raging black dragon. “We need to give our kind more than revenge, more than battle, we need to give them hope. A home."

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that if those so called kingdoms don’t want magic in their lands, we should build a kingdom of our own.”  
   
Her sister had been shocked to say least. After all, weren’t them going after Camelot exactly so they could legalize magic and free their people? The thing was, Morgana knew Camelot, she knew of their strength and their stubbornness, she lived through it. No, her whole point was that they didn’t need Camelot.  
   
“All right, but how, pray tell me, will we do that? Do you suggest we take Amata for ourselves?”  
   
“Not Amata, Jhidar was right about one thing, to truly free magic, we need more than the death of one man. Amata is too stuck in its ways to be easily tamed.” Morgana had turned her gaze north then. “There is, however, a kingdom ripe for the taking, with almost no structured laws, scarce nobility and a people earning for any betterment of their lives.”  
   
“Essetir” Morgause gasped. “You speak of Essetir.”  
   
“Yes, as far as I remember Lot took his sweet time before claiming his uncle’s lands. I recon we have at least a month before he starts his march.”  
   
“Our kind are not numerous sister, we would still need an army, and as much as the Rowan Staff is useful in close combat, its strength is greatly diminished now. Besides, dead skeletons are useless in the open field.” Morgause said carefully and Morgana took a while to think about it.  
   
“Then, we need support, Essetir’s lords, knights and farmers, they won’t welcome Lot. Cenred relied so much in mercenaries his fyrd is mostly there.”  
   
“Fyrd?” Morgause scoffed. “You want to fight beside farmers and peasants with scythes and pitchforks?”  
   
“If they have magic and the right strategy, they can win.”  
   
She had patiently waited as her sister digested the news, wondering if she was even right to choose that path. The fact is, Morgana had been truthful when she spoke with Arthur in Camelot, she was in fact tired of that land. Besides, the memories she regained thanks to Morgause’s potion had reminded her of something she had almost forgotten, that under everything she had ever tried to accomplish she had always wanted to build a land of freedom and justice, away from Uther’s prejudices.   
   
“This plan of yours” Morgause broke the silence. “Camelot will never allow a magical kingdom right across their borders.”  
   
Despite every doubt, Morgana had smirked. “No, I imagine they won’t.”  
   
Morgause had agreed, and after that day, Morgana felt like she had family again. Suddenly there was a sense of trust between her and her sister that she had not felt even in the best days of her past life. She felt like an equal, not only in their pain, but their ambitions. It was almost like her and Arthur used to be, long ago, when they were boy and girl, alone in a court none of them could understand, trying to find on the other what was lacking in the world. Kindness, justice, freedom, truth and, sometimes, something more.  
   
Such memories were not as unwelcome as they might’ve been one day, and even if such nights were now distant, gone, she cherished them nonetheless. There was not as much guilty as their shared blood might have brought her once. Looking outside her room, at the stars, she wondered about the people that might be sharing the view with her when a soft knock cut through her musings.  
   
“Come in”  
   
When the door opened, Morgana held back her surprise at seeing Lady Elaine entering the chambers. She was wearing the same clothes from the hall, but the silver chain was gone and her hair was piled over her shoulders in bright red waves.  
   
“Lady Morgana.”  
   
“Lady Elaine” She offered a small curtsy, and dutifully offered a seat to the lady of the castle.  
   
“I came to have words away from the confusion of my hall.”  
   
Morgana smiled. “I must be honest, I was expecting a trap rather than a conversation.”  
   
“My councilors did have ideas of sending you to Camelot for trial in exchange for protection.”  
   
Morgana nodded, quietly keeping her anger at bay. An old side of her screamed about betrayal, but she gave it no heed. “Protection against Lot?”  
   
“Protection against everyone” Lady Elaine said, resigned. “When I was very young, my father always told me Essetir is not like other kingdoms. In these lands lords and knights will fight for scraps and prey upon any sign of weakness. Cenred kept us under a leash, but now that he and his mercenaries are gone, my own neighbors call their men, no doubt seeking to seize these lands now that my father is dead.”  
   
Looking down, Morgana bit her lips before accepting the implication. “Your father fought in Camelot.”  
   
Lady Elaine nodded, carefully, decisive. “He did.”  
   
“I would say I’m sorry, but I know how empty those words might sound.” When she looked up again, there was a silent agreement between then, one Morgana was not sure of or even aware until that point. It was an acceptance of the unfairness of life, and the alliances one must make. “So you’re considering my proposal.”  
   
“In part yes. You clearly would be invaluable in any war against Lot, and my lands wouldn’t survive under his rule. I’m not naive to think otherwise. I do, however, wonder at your ambitions in coming to our aid.” The woman said, her hands together atop her skirt. “Tell me, my lady, what could I gain from bargaining with you?”  
   
“You heard about my short reign.” Morgana saw the confirmation on the other’s face and steeled herself. “I hope you don’t expect me to justify my actions, because frankly my lady, I can’t do so. I had a kingdom under my thumb, I had knights and a people that never supported me. I wanted that power and I did everything I could to keep it and that is all there is to it.”  
   
“So you’re admitting you would make a poor queen?”

“Not at all, I’m admitting I was a poor queen, but I seek to build something much greater than that.”  
   
“And what is that?”  
   
There was curiosity in her voice, and Morgana paused, letting it stew. “What I plan to do, what I plan to accomplish with your help, my lady, is to build something more, a kingdom where sickness and hunger does not rule, where freedom and justice can be found by even the smallest peasant. A kingdom you hear about in the songs.”  
   
“A dream.”  
   
“A dream that is possible, with magic.” Morgana carefully motioned to the lady’s broken arm, and gingerly took it in her hands. " **Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie"**

Lady Elaine held her breath at the sound of the spell, but Morgana was careful. She whispered the words gently, easing the magic into the wound as her bracelet burned with power. When the light pulsed and vanished around the limb, Lady Elaine gulped, moving her fingers and bending her elbow, bewildered.  
   
Morgana smiled, as much as one heard about magic, first impressions were important. “Magic can be a door to a world of wonders my lady. If you help me open it, I can show it to you.”  
   
Lady Elaine recomposed herself enough to send her a sharp look. “You’re asking for a lot.”  
   
“Nothing important in this world comes without risk.” Morgana sat down, gazing back to the stars. “It is late, but I would love to talk more, what do you say?”  
 


	10. The Call

Morgause shivered and got herself closer to the fire.

Tied to a tree, her horse fed eagerly from the fodder, after drinking to his heart’s content from the small running stream running beside her camp. In any other circumstance, she would be conjuring a spell for warmth already, but giving the horse more than natural speed and endurance exhausted her body and mind enough to make it difficult.

It was a small price to pay though. Tucking her body in her cloak and munching on a piece of bread to regain a little of her strength, the High Priestess recalled her sister’s ambitious little plan once again, spoken with a passion and will so distant from the broken shell she had been in past days. When the details were discussed, she had been the one to plan this little trip because she knew it could work.

“She listens to the earth.” she had told her sister. “With appropriate power she might be able to speak as well.”

Of course she was skeptical about the outcome, there might be problems, the price might be too high to pay, but in the end Morgana’s energy was grudgingly contagious and Morgause caught herself wanting that promised kingdom as well. So she bit on her cheese and threw a enchanted pebble into the fire, feeling the power of the ward enveloping the camp. She would sleep safely for now.

She arrived at the cave at the end of the second day. Tired and aching, the blond left her horse behind and peered into the ink like darkness the filled the cave, its energy hitting her like a grief tinged song, bitter and angry and not even the torch she lit was enough to break the shiver that run through her body.

The creature was waiting for her deep into the cave, where the air grew damp and musky, and the torch was her only light. She was hunkered down on the ground of dark earth, but upon Morgause’s approach she moved, faster than her eyes could see, grabbing her arm with a bony pale hand. Gasping, the High Priestess did her best to keep still while been stared down by a face with no eyes, sniffing her flesh.

“Morgause of House Gorlois, High Priestess of the Triple Goddess.”

Morgause licked at her lips, working out the proper words. “I seek your help, old one, help of utmost importance.”

“Interesting.” The creature of the earth hummed, coking her head to the side. “What does Morgana Pendragon wishes from me?”

That took her by surprised. “H-how do you know of my sister?”

“How do I know? Am I not the Dochraid? The one who listens to the earth? I know many things young priestess, and I see them too for without my eyes my vision is clear.” She hummed to herself, her lips curling into a ugly smile. “The threads of fate were broken. I felt it happening. The earth trembled, and now nothing is as it should be.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Dochraid turned around, her form settling down until she was almost lying on the ground, the tangle of hair atop of her head resting above a lime covered stone. “Many threads the destiny brings us. Some speak of a king, the once and future king, who will bring peace and prosperity. Others speak of Emrys and his power, bending fate to his will. More than one though, speak of Morgana, and the old ways. These last ones I follow eagerly, but now, they have changed to something uncertain, fragile and brittle.”

Morgause gulped, feeling the uneasy settling like a stone in her stomach. Of course she had heard about certain prophecies before, the one about the once and future king had stopped her from harming Arthur in the past, but she never gave them all that much credit. Nimue always said living your life for prophecies was the same as a blind man believing he could still see. With that in mind, even though she wanted to know more, she refused to entertain the thought and stay in that cave longer than necessary.

“Will you help, ancient one?” The Dochraid said nothing, so Morgause stepped forward, the Rowan Staff clutched in her hand, its scars and cracks shining under the torch. “Will you sent a call into the earth?”

“A call, aye, that would be possible, and the payment is more than appropriate.”

The creature grabbed the staff from her hands, sniffing the wood, and feeling the scars left on the relic. Arthur’s servant had broken it, but she and her sister had repaired it, its magic crippled forever, but unique all the same. The Dochraid whispered to herself then. The air growing thick with magic older than Morgause, perhaps older than the staff itself. **“Fôn sê godcund lâf. ætberan sê ionna êower earm, hwæðere tîð sê ðâ ðe cwene bênsian. L¯æn hiere of hê êower swêg, sê mêowle ðafian hiere of hê mancynn. Lendan hiere of hê êower sceadw¯ære onwealh.”** When those hideous hands let go of the staff, it remained standing, pulsing with energy.

“Your time is short, High Priestess, be quick and don’t let go.”

* * *

 

“Careful, Merlin, you don’t want to end up on the ground, do you?” Percival said, his eyebrows rising to his forehead, while Merlin easily walked around him. After bumping on the knight in his hurry, he did realize the man was made of marble.

“Sorry” He spoke quickly, smiling to himself.

The kitchens were, as always, a whole mess of paces and voices, people coming and going as they readied the castle’s meals for the day. Broths were heated atop of big ovens, bread was baked and separated for the servants, while meats and fruits were cured and dried up for storage. As the Winter came closer and closer, already people were expecting snows to fall at any day.

Sneaking his way inside and avoiding Fal’s quick eyes, Merlin found the Prince’s clothes drying atop of a fire. Luckily, it hadn’t caught fire like the first time he had done it, which was blessing. He lost notion of how much magic he used just to take care of Arthur’s clothes. For a moment he was tempted to stay in the kitchens for a while longer, they were warm after all, so hot some people were sweating despite the cold winds blowing outdoors. Unfortunately, he really didn’t want to give Arthur an excuse to punish him, so he quickly took the clothes and left, stopping short when he saw Gwen and Lancelot talking in the Phoenix hallway.

He waved and Gwen smiled at him, for which he was glad. She had seemed very down lately, and with the rumors about her circulating the village, Merlin had been trying extra hard to keep an eye on her. Lancelot was saying his farewell now, maybe going out on another scouting. With supplies arriving every day, the knights had more than their hands full in keeping the roads safe.

“Hello, Merlin, in a hurry today?” She asked, clutching a bundle of clothes at her side, the king’s most likely.

“Everyday.” He smirked, keeping pace with her. “Arthur gains a promotion and my job doubles, it’s really silly when you think about it.”

“Well, we all do our parts, don’t we?” She pointed out, as they climbed the stairs.

“For Camelot” Merlin nodded. “Gaius tells me the king is off the bed.”

“More than before, at least.” She paused. “And how is Arthur? Its been a while since we got to talk.”

“He is okay, I think.” He paused, thinking back to the many nights he found Arthur just looking out his window at night, the name in his mind passing by them unspoken. Merlin knew that many people had been affected by Morgana’s betrayal, and he was more than glad that they all seem to be moving on. “He doesn’t spend as much time without sleep now that his uncle is here.”

“Lord Agravaine” Gwen bit at her lower lip. Merlin knew she was weird around the man who had taken control of so many things upon his arrival, including the care of Uther. “How is he like?”

“Dunno, sort of a git I think.”

They both chuckled at that and Merlin was happy to see Gwen going away with a smile as he finally came back to Arthur’s chambers with his clothes.

It was a tiresome task of course, but at these times, tasks held a whole new weight to them, because if Camelot was to ever rebuild itself, it had, first, to function properly, and that meant his position as Arthur’s servant mattered even more. It was his responsibility that the regent was fed, had clothes and armor at his disposition. It was his responsibility to see to his comfort, and his schedules and whatnots, allowing him to think only of his kingdom.

It didn’t mean he had to like of course.

When the prince’s chambers were all completely settled, and his clothes were back into place, he hurried back to the council, stumbling and dodging working servants and knights as they flooded the hallways with tasks of every nature. Twice he caught gossiping words floating in the air, and only once he whispered a small enchantment to drench the gossipers in soap water. The doors had just opened when he arrived, letting out a series of disgruntled nobles, some peeved old knights, and a few friendly faces, none of them were Arthur’s though so he quietly let himself in.

“You can’t ignore it forever, Arthur.”

“I’m aware of that, uncle” Arthur was saying, sitting at the head of the table, his brow furrowed in in thought. “However, Lord Hector must be made aware that his counsel is nothing but that, a counsel.”

“Indeed, but that doesn’t stop the fact that he is slowly gaining support for his cause. Remember, Arthur, your father always spoke of seizing more territory and expanding Camelot’s borders, and many men that he raised to power shared in his ambitions.”

Merlin slowly put himself beside the door, noticing Arthur’s gaze dart his way for a moment. “Do you think it would be wise?”

Agravaine paused, and Merlin watched the man pacing for a moment. “Lord Hector is right on one thing, Lot would never dare face our troops if we were to occupy Cenred’s kingdom before him, however to risk an campaign in winter, you’re right to refuse.”

“So, I’m right.” Arthur’s shoulders seemed to sag in relief at that, his uncle offering him a weary smile.

“Just make sure to let him know of that, sire. You must be strong when letting your decisions shown.” At that, the man bowed and Merlin watched him leaving without sparing a single glance to him, the servant.

“You finished with your tasks, Merlin?”

“Of course, sire.” He walked forward, standing beside the table where Arthur was slowly tracing the old carvings. “Something on your mind?”

“Nothing, what business is it yours with what is on my mind?” Merlin shrugged, waiting patiently until his cloth-pole of a prince got over his stubbornness. “Did you know, Merlin, that Camelot usually offers support to neighboring kingdoms during harsh winters?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, my father used it as a way to keep alliances, you know, keep them safe and dependent on our supplies, but now, we hardly have enough to feed our own people.” Merlin chewed the inside of his cheek. To him, staring at the cellars packed with meat, the stores with sacks of wealthy and grain that reached the roofs, and barrels and more barrels of mead and wine carried by carts everyday, it seemed that Camelot had enough food for years, but of course appearances could be very deceiving. “Of course, I won’t be able to send anything this year. In fact, I feel tempted to ask, and that might bring consequences of its own.”

Merlin nodded, he didn’t know enough about politics and relations between kingdoms to understand, but he knew that his friend was troubled. “Well, maybe you should just, think about it later. I’m sure you can come to a solution with a full stomach and a clear head.”

“Yes, a clear head.” Arthur’s smile was weary, his eyes lingered atop of the table for a moment. “The last time Camelot was starving, Morgana sent all of her food to the servants, did you know?”

Merlin blinked, suddenly, there was a very bad taste in his mouth as he nodded to the prince. Arthur seemed lost in thought to notice his reaction. “She spoke to my father about it, she was angered that he would have a full meal while people starved. It was always like that with her, she saw something wrong and didn’t hesitate to fix it.”

“She was never afraid of Uther” Merlin said, because that seemed the most harmless truth in that moment.

“Do you think there is still some part of that old Morgana in her?”

Merlin didn’t know what was it that made Arthur’s voice become thick like that. In true, he was surprised by the turn of the conversation. Morgana seemed like such a heavy subject, something that floated over Camelot like a curse that no one dared give voice to. Arthur himself had avoided her name until now, and Merlin wondered at that, because, to be honest, he saw no hope for the woman

Morgana had already proven again and again that she wouldn’t hesitate to destroy Camelot, and what he was trying to accomplish. Sometimes he would feel the guilt punching him in the guts so hard it stole his breath, but as time passed, he became more and more sure that he made the right choice, and more and more Morgana seemed to sink into her hate. She was the darkness to his light. “I think, she made her choices, Arthur, we can’t pretend that she didn’t.”

“Right, of course.” Arthur answered quickly. Merlin feared he would be in a sour mood now, but instead he broke the tension with an most unexpected question. ”I don’t think I like this table.”

“What?”

“This table.” He knocked on the wood, motioning to the length of it before him and grimaced. The topic of Morgana seeming forgotten. “I don’t like it.”

“It is very ugly.”

“That is not what I meant, idiot.” Arthur complained. “After we're done fixing the damaged parts of the castle, I think I’m gonna build a new one, like the one from the ruins, round. What do you think?”

Merlin blinked, the temptation was stronger than him at that moment. “You would seek advice from a mere servant on furniture, my prince, you honor me.”

“Shut up, be serious.” Arthur scolded, but he was still seated and Merlin was standing at least a inch too far to receive a slap to the back of the head. So he grinned. “My uncle thinks it is unwise. To sit at the head of the table shows power, he says.”

“He is right, but the knights that followed you from those ruins didn’t do it because you were above them.”

Merlin thought it was a very good council, and he hoped Arthur would listen to it. Never before, since his arrival at Camelot, Merlin had felt as hopeful as at these last days. It was hard work, but watching Arthur ruling the kingdom seemed a sure sign that good times were coming, that Kilgharrah’s promises were finally about to come true. Sure, it was horrible that Uther was not himself, but Merlin had no doubt that Arthur could be a better king that the man had ever been. He was about to say that, as much as Arthur wouldn’t really appreciate it, when he felt the air been squeezed out of his lungs. He blinked, feeling it around him, thick like the bottom of a lake, every muscles in his body struggling to move. In front of him Arthur spoke something, but his ears were filled with a loud hissing sound that slowly morphed into a voice.

_“Brothers and sister. Sorcerers of all the land. Listen and be wise. For years now our kind has been hunted, massacred and butchered under the will of evil laws. For years, you have hidden yourselves from the world, hidden under slavery and cages of the mind. For years you have lost homes and loved ones to tyranny and oppression. Now, I say it, we've had enough. For too long this has gone, now it's time to rise. Now, I urge you to set yourselves free, to fight for a place of our own. In the name of Morgana Pendragon, I urge your to follow this call, to a place of battle. You want hope and freedom? Follow this call and spark it, feed its fire, let it become an inferno!”_

Then, the magic washed away and Merlin caught himself before he could fall, his hands clutching the side of the table in front of him while Arthur’s voice became clear and louder.

“...mmit! Merlin, are you listening!? Talk to me!”

“I-I’m listening” He whispered weakly, while Arthur helped him to a chair. His legs were trembling, and he grabbed them in a attempt to make them stop, but it barely worked.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course, I’m all right.” He watched Arthur’s brow furrowing as he looked him up and down, the scrutiny of the prince not helping Merlin as he felt his clothes sticking to his skin, and the tingling at the back of his head that spoke of a place that he should reach. A location printed in his mind as well as the location of his bedroom.

“You don’t seem all right, go see Gaius. That’s an order, I don’t need you breaking your neck on the stairs or anything.”

“Right...” Any other day he would be either refusing to leave or jumping at the idea of a day off, but Arthur had it right. He needed to see Gaius right away. “Of course.”

He started to run as soon as he was out of Arthur’s sight, his feet jumping down the stair two at a time, sliding across the hallways, and across the courtyard as if the storm itself was racing to catch him. As he climbed the tower, he could hear it, whispered by dragon's voice, an ominous warning, a threat. _Darkness to his light_. He felt it now, more than ever, and Merlin didn’t stop until he was pushing the doors open with a burst of magic. Panting, his wide eyes sought out the physician, finding him sitting in front of the fire, his haunted gaze telling Merlin everything he needed to know.

“Gaius, was that...”

“That was, indeed, Morgause’s voice, Merlin. I was hoping you hadn't heard it, but alas.” Gaius sighed deeply, while Merlin walked up to him. “It must be a very powerful magic.”

“Who was she talking to?”

“Can’t you guess?” Gaius raised an eyebrow, his lips pursing questionably. “She was speaking to all of us, Merlin, all of us who have magic.”

Merlin shook his head. It couldn’t be, not so soon after their victory. Camelot had barely recovered from the fighting and Morgana was already preparing her next step, because that was what that was. A new plot. He was sure of it and immediately started rumbling about it. “It was a message, and there is a place too, somewhere to meet.”

“So it would seem.”

“What would she have to say that is so important, that she would call magical people to a meeting?”

Gaius was shaking his head and the way his eyes landed heavily on him made it seem as if the light suddenly vanished from the room. Suddenly, Merlin felt it, the darkness closing in on them, its mouth open, ready to take him between its teeth. “That wasn’t a call for a meeting, my boy. That was a call to arms.”


	11. Negotiations

She was dressed all in black, from the veil covering her face to the boots visible under the skirt, the colors of her mourning were only broken by her personal twin wolves, pinning her cloak over her shoulders as she initiated the conversations. Her gaze never lingered far away, which even Morgana found to be disconcerting.

“You’re far from home sorceress, both you and Lady Elaine.”

“As is you, Lady Cerys.”

She offered no curtsy but a slight tilt of her head, a show of respect but not of submission. She had shown the later to Lady Elaine because she was then, a beggar seeking the impossible, but with the blue ox and half dozen small lords and knights now backing her ambitions, her meetings would now require a different sort of behavior. If Lady Elaine took notice of that, she didn’t show it, merely offering a similar greeting before taking her seat.

“It is always curious to receive news of marching armies, dangerously so.”

Again, Morgana nodded, feeling warm under her traveling clothes. Although she had no real wardrobe, Lady Elaine had been kind enough to offer a fancy fur cloak instead of her old traveling one. It was indeed for more adequate to the setting around her. The huge tent was well furnished and lit, barely allowing any chill to enter the meeting.

“We came here seeking an explanation about your intentions.” The voice that broke the silence was young and on the verge of breaking itself. The lad that was Lord Trito wasn’t old enough to grow a beard, and yet he did his best to appear strong in his seat, dressed in a leather tunic carved with running dogs. From the opposite side, Lord Belmont, his thick beard parted in three braids, cleared his throat.

“Yes, precisely, your messages were rather vague about it.”

“Our message spoke about meeting Lot in the battlefield, my lords. I don’t see where lies the confusion.” Lady Elaine questioned, the single braid of red spilling over her shoulder, tied by a set of matching blue ribbons.

“Clearly, the confusion lies on your allegiance, Lady Elaine. Have you allied yourself with a witch?” Belmont said and Morgana felt the urge to sink her nails in her armrest.

“My allegiance with Lady Morgana was done so under the premise of mutual benefit, Lord Belmont. It is not so different than your families past negotiations with slave traders and mercenaries.”

Lord Belmont’s shrewd eyes narrowed dangerously, but nothing he did could hide the sudden flush that came to his cheeks. “Those truces were a means to secure the safety of my lands. Lest not forget that your own father resorted to such things in the past.”

“And I won’t deny that. Cenred always pushed his greed into his policies, taking power away from our legit rule to bank his business partners, I doubt any of you are mourning his death.”

“We mourn the stability he kept.” Lady Cerys cut in, her purple covered lips twisting into a grimace. “We mourn those that were brought down with him.”

“And in that, I think we are all equal, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hardly”

The implication once again had Morgana reeling, bracing herself for the subject that was coming next. Surprisingly, it was the young Trito that brought it up. “Lady Morgana was responsible for Cenred’s fall, was she not?”

Had it been her old self, Morgana might have lashed out, a simple spell with enough power to submitted all three of these lords to her will, forcefully so, but she was long past depending on such urges. Albion had always been a place of greed and power, where rulers were far more concerned by their personal strife and wrongs than the big picture. It was a land of little trust, but, like she had told Lady Elaine before, nothing important came without risk.

“You want to know of Cenred? I can speak in length about him, about how me and my sister came to him for his army and about how he didn’t think twice about submitting his men to dark sorcery even if it meant taking away their freedom.” She blinked, putting to worlds exactly what they wanted to hear, those three who together could possibly bring the rest of Essetir to her side. “You cast your blame upon my shoulders? Fine, pick up a sword and challenge me right now, I vow to not use magic at all, but if you wish to hear the true, Cenred had doomed your loved ones the moment he saw a chance for his greed to take flight.”

Lord Belmon sneered. “You deny your sorcery tempted our king?”

“If you considered him a king I highly doubt your capacity for judgment.”

“Oh, you...”

“Belmont” Lady Cerys interrupted, a simple motion of her hands brought the man down into his chair, as she once again looked at Morgana. “You have a sharp tongue, sorceress.”

“The truth can often cut, my lady.”

“Yes, indeed, and yet you didn't answer to his accusation.”

"His accusation? Why, yes, I had part in the sorcery that destroyed his armies. He wanted to be invincible, me and my sister, we gave him that. Then Camelot defeated us all, and now here we are."

Lady Cerys changed her target to Elaine. “You lost a father, Lady Elaine, a man I used to respect, how come you are now at this woman’s side?”

“The opportunity to avoid a far worse fate.” The Lady of the Blue Ox declared. “In the end, the only thing that remains is the facts, Lady Cerys. My father is dead, and now a evil of Lot and hi wardogs marches into our country. Morgana Pendragon offers us a chance to fight.”

“In a futile war?”

“It won’t be futile.” Morgana pursed her lips, watching those lords in front of her with the same inquiring eyes that she had learned through pain and betrayal. “Not if all of Essetir and my people, fight together.”

“Your people?” Trito questioned.

“Yes, my people, sorcerers and druids, small warlocks and witches, all of those pursued and beaten by the law.”

“Criminals and rebels, old hags and children.” Lady Cerys tilted her head to the side, her wrinkled showing strong laughing lines when she smiled. “Essetir was always lax in following the law, but it wasn’t out of tolerance, Lady Morgana, I assure you.”

“I’m aware. If Cenred actually had the means many of you would be hunting down my kind, I have no doubt, and yet now you need us all the same.” She watched their patience working itself thin, and decided to cut to the chase. “Unless none of you care for licking Lot’s boots when he comes to power.”

All at once, the room seemed to erupted. Lord Belmont opened his mouth, starting a rant about insolence, and insults. Lord Trito frowned, while Lady Elaine answered in kind, her voice rising as she scolded the man for his attitude and Lady Cerys demanded silence. Morgana waited for a few heartbeats before having enough of that mess. She shot out her hand and made the candles around the tent increase and hiss, the noise and heat bringing the argument to a stop as weary eyes now found her to be a tempting target. No one was happy to be reminded of her power, it seemed.

"You want to know your options? I can give them to you, as certain as any Seer out there. Lot will come, he will demand loyalty, he will raid villages and sell your people into slavery. He will leech your vaults and lands until you're hungry and miserable. He will take daughters and sons, and he will torture and kill at the mere sign of defiance. That is the future for those who don't fight now."

“B-but... Essetir doesn’t fight together.” The lad finally spoke, he darted his gaze to his companions and then back towards her, never looking more like a child as in that moment. “My father always said so, he only went to Camelot for the… For the loot.”

“As did my husband, and Lord Belmont’s nephews I have no doubt” Lady Cerys complemented. “Young Trito speaks truly, Essetir will never fight together, much less against someone as feared as Lot.”

Lord Belmont nodded. “We’ve already heard words that he is traveling south, his claim has been made for all to hear, and he has an army at his back. Horses, spears and shields in numbers we can never hope to match.”

“Fighting him is pointless.”

Beside her, Morgana could feel Lady Elaine’s gaze as sure as the touch of an ice spike. “So no one wants Lot for their king.”

Lady Cerys huffed. “Not even a rock with enough sense would want such a thing.”

“Then join us. We all know what serving Lot would mean, we all heard of his name and his deeds.” Lady Elaine spoke, her voice was as unwavering as it had been in her halls. “You claim Essetir doesn’t fight together, but I managed to unite all my close neighbors, old friends of my father and even those who were gathering to attack my own lands.”

Lady Cerys glared. “Don’t hide behind your words, my Lady. The three of us have heard about how Morgana Pendragon has threatened your enemies, your only reason to support her is so that you don’t loose your lands.”

“And wouldn’t you do the same? Isn't that exactly what we're promising you three?”

The bitterness became thick as butter, and Morgana almost wished she had a knife to taste the flavor, instead she got to her feet, making sure she was the center of attention in the small space. Feeling the patterns of her bracelet with her fingers she looked over the great three of Essetir.

“This isn’t just about defeating Lot, it’s about much more than you can possibly imagine, my lords.” She licked her lips, feeling the weight of her dress suddenly suffocating. “I made a deal with the Lady Elaine, one that partakes with my kind and her own people. When Lot is defeated she has offered land and protection to magical folk. Her people and mine, will share and live side by side, and just imagine what that can bring, my lords. With the right spell you can eliminate plagues and diseases, with the right words, you might grow healthier crops and protect your borders. A wealthy kingdom and a wealthy people, that is what I’m offering.”

“That is absurd.”

“Preposterous.”

She raised a hand interrupting their protests. It was a test, a test of how far they saw her as a threat and how far they were willing to listen and it worked. Making sure to hide her pleasure at the silence, Morgana carefully explained the situation.

“Forgive me, but I’ve made a call already, a calling to sorcerers all over Albion to come and fight for Essetir. Be aware I’m not taking you into a losing gamble, but to a very possible victory. Lady Elaine and her armies will have magic on their side, and when this conflict is over her lands will rip the benefits of it whether you wished it or not.”

“I have already made a pact with Morgana in name of her people.“ Lady Elaine followed suit. “We repeat our message to you. We want safe passage through your lands, and we ask for men and supplies so we might face Lot on the northern marches.”

“Cenred spent years keeping Essetir on its knees.” Morgana said, putting power behind her voice, a power she had heard in Arthur’s voice and even Uther a few times. “If you want to grasp the chance to rise to your feet, that is up to you.”

Even though silence could sometimes speak for itself, Morgana still couldn’t help but wish she could read auras as well as Morgause, to glimpse into the minds in front of her and see how far she had reached them. It wasn’t easy what she was offering, but Morgana had not expected anything else. Essetir was already a broken kingdom, having some of them wishing to forge their personal realms wouldn’t bother her at all.

“Perhaps, we might speak with Lady Elaine by ourselves, Lady Morgana.”

It was only the use of the title and respectful tone that made her actually acquiesce and walk out of the tent, feeling the cold in her skin, the first breath of winter, so promising and dangerous all at once. Such a beautiful combination. She couldn’t help but smile as she came back to where Accolon and Bors were waiting, those memories that she had revived making themselves known yet again. The promising gazes of two young lovers meeting each other across the hall, and the dangerous affair that came in their nights. Arthur’s chambers had always felt warm, despite the snows falling outside, warm in more ways than a mere fire could make it.

It was a while later when her ally finally emerged. Lady Elaine mounted silently and together, they rode down the hill, towards the one thousand, eight hundred and thirteen men of the army. Farmers, poachers, and lads, the bottom of the barrel.

“Don’t you think you were a bit harsh?”

“They needed harshness.” Morgana explained. “I’ve been where they are now, paralyzed by fear, wanting to hang on to what little they had left. Sometimes you need some harshness to shake such a people.”

Elaine hummed, riding a while longer before asking again. “Was I paralyzed by fear?”

“No.” Now she looked at the woman, in their short time together, between meals and negotiations involving what magic could do for her lands, Morgana had come to like the young noble. “You were paralyzed by anger, it is a little bit different. You just needed a target.”

The auburn haired woman barked a laugh at that. “Well, if you must know, I think Lord Trito is interested in joining us, but I can’t say the same for the other two.”

“You said that his lands are vast.”

“They are, but he is young still, not as influential as his father was. If we had any hopes of uniting Essetir we needed all three of them.”

Morgana nodded. “Well, his alliance is still better than nothing, besides, there is time still for the others to change their minds.”

“Not that much time, with the snows always closer we might have to march and give battle before the army starves.”

“It won’t come to that.” Elaine seemed uncertain, but Morgana smiled confidently. “Trust me.”

They rode down the slope and came to the huge camp waiting in the valley. Around her, it was not soldiers that waited for them, but the bulk of Lady Elaine’s fyrd, the farmers and their sons, and wanderers and free knights with the few household guards that were still alive to be there. They were all clustered around their fires now, cooking their meals in between shifts of guards, as they came to a tent protected in the center of the camp, where Elaine’s blue ox flew beside the rowan tree. The chief of Elaine’s guard greeted them both right away, whispering something in his Lady’s ear that caused her lips to purse.

“What is it?”

“It seems your call has already shown results.”

Morgana frowned, following Lady Elaine around the tent to where a man and a woman were being watched by a score of armed guards, their familiar eyes rising to roam over her features. The man was not young, his hair was short and gray, his face a testament of time and hardships that was also painted over his posture. The woman, however young, had a similar look under the tangled nest of dark hair, her body was covered in rags rather than proper clothing, although the chain mail attested to skills in battle.

“They presented themselves to the camp as soon your flag was raised.” The captain explained, motioning the rowan tree banner, crimson against black cloth.

Nodding, Morgana approached, talking first to the woman. “What is your name?”

“Mauren.” She answered, looking away.

“You’ve heard the call.” Morgana pointed out, to which the woman nodded.

“Aye, I heard it, it blared in my mind for what is worth, me and my companions, we all came.”

“Your companions?” Lady Elaine asked and the girl huffed.

“Why, of course we wouldn’t risk all showing up at once, would we? Damn bloody stupid that would be.”

Morgana glanced at the man when she said that, but doubted he had any qualms about being held prisoner. She had watched him cut down scores of knights once. “Well, the call was true, I’m Morgana Pendragon, and I do seek help to fight for our people. I swear it by the goddess.”

The woman’s gaze lingered for a little bit longer, her yellow teeth appearing in a cynical smile. “Well, as long as I get to draw some blood, I guess we’re good.”

Morgana nodded. “Feel free to call your people when you’re comfortable.”

Mauren scoffed again, a cynical sound so far away from a dead body lying in a pool of blood. A sound of her age, of young people who hated to feel their age. Realizing that there was not more to gain from talking to the woman, she turned to the man.

“And you are...”

“Ruadan, my lady.”

It was odd to hear such polite introduction from a man who had once strode into her dwellings with a prophecy and a promise on his lips. “Ruadan, I’ve heard of you, rumors and whispers. You were once a druid, were you not?”

“Yes, my lady, they always refused to fight back no matter what happened. I couldn’t really agree to them anymore as their choices were always to lower their heads.”

“Indeed, I myself am of the belief than sometimes change needs a more forceful approach.” She paused, tilting her head curiously. “You came to fight, Ruadan?”

“In my travels, I heard many things, my lady. Tales and prophecies and promises. Indeed there is one that sparked my curiosity, of a woman destined to revive the Old Religion.” He eyed her from beneath his eyebrows, and she opened herself to his study, wondering how deep his simmering hate for Camelot would be at this point. “If you indeed fight for our people, my lady, than I would fight for you.”

“Very well.” She looked to the captain. “Make sure they’re well fed and sheltered. I shall talk more to them later.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As the man walked away to see to his orders, Morgana face the two people that had marched all the way to Essetir on her promise of freedom and battle. One that had served her and another that would no doubt try to kill her at some point. Two avengers with dark hearts. Her people, or at least what Uther made of them.

She didn’t mind of course.

As the sun lowered itself behind the horizon, and the banners of the twin wolves and a pack of dogs crested above their messengers, Morgana shared with them a meal, because she understood them, she understood them very well.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, Mauren is a OC, yes, but she is actually something I expanding from the show, so, cna you guess who she is related to? XD


	12. Burdens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, one more chapter here, this one is a bit slow in estabilishing Camelot and its characters. Next ones we will finally get back to Team Morgana and the battle for Essetir, so keep your eyes open.

The day was chilly and gray and Arthur’s breath smoked in front of his face as he stood on the edge of the training grounds. In front of him, young man of many ages practiced stances and lunges with wooden swords, and despite the cold he could clearly see the sweaty clinging to their skin after a morning of exercise.

For him, it was strange, to watch them there as if only yesterday he could feel his own instructors barking orders and pummeling him with practice weapons full of led, until he was stumbling into bed, sore and tired. It would do them good, he thought now. Suffering builds a man’s character, or that was what his father used to say when he felt tempted to beg for water. He wondered if the current instructor understood that.

“Relax your grip!” Lancelot shouted at them. “If you hold your sword too loose, it will fall, hold it too hard and it will hurt. Learning that balance is essential for any swordsman!”

“Are you gonna be mad at him?”

“What?” He turned to his side, watching Merlin’s uncertain grin level with his shoulder.

“Lancelot, are you mad at him?”

“What business is it to you, Merlin?” Now he was annoyed. He really didn’t need a servant asking questions when the whole kingdom already doubted his competence.

“None at all, I’m just curious since you called me here.” Merlin fidget. “Oh god, you don’t want me to hold him for you, do you?”

That made him chuckle. “Merlin, I’ll let you know that unless I need my closet moved or my things carried for me, I don’t really expect any physical prowess from your part.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” Arthur nodded, watching as Lancelot finally took notice of his presence. The knight mumbled something to the men and strode his way. “I was starting to think that my twig of a body wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Lancelot must have caught some piece of the exchange, because his lips twitched briefly when he bowed his head. “Sire, what brings you here?”

“Well, if you must know, I just had a fun morning at court when Sir Brennis strode in, demanding you be put in cell for undermining his authority.” He looked over his knight, watching the men lining up for sparring, their stances were nearly perfect. “Wasn’t he the one in charge of training the recruits?”

“Well, sire, if you must know, it wasn’t my intention to undermine his authority.” Lancelot rubbed the back of his head, his eyes darting everywhere but his face. “I was, having a conversation with Gwen, and I was pointing out that Sir Brennis wasn’t really teaching anything. He was just shouting at people.”

“I see.” He tried not to think about the fact that Lancelot had seen Gwen that morning, he hadn’t been in her presence for days now, only catching glimpses of her dark curls here and there, wondering if he could feel a whisper of those gentle brown eyes of hers. Suddenly, he missed her. “Then, what happened?”

“Well, I tried pointing that out to him which caused Sir Brennis to challenge me. He told me that if I thought I could do a better job, I should do it. I instructed a random lad, and he picked another. They fought, and the boy under my instructions won.”

“At which point, Sir Brennis felt insulted.”

“If his ego is that fragile that wasn’t really much to insult, was there?” Merlin pointed out from his back. Arthur turned and looked at his servant pointedly, barely holding his grin back while Merlin turned away, that touch of mirth and insolence never really disappearing.

“In any case, I shall apologize to Sir Brennis as soon as possible, sire.”

“That would probably be for the best, just try not turning this into a duel.” There was a loud scream, and them all turned to watch a boy clutching his arm. His face was young, and it suddenly struck Arthur that those were not really men on the field, some of them couldn’t possibly over sixteen as he demanded in his orders. “Some of those are children.”

“Some of those lads probably lied about their age, sire.”

Arthur frowned at the information. He wasn’t naive, heck, his father had called him that so many times he came to hate the word altogether, but he needed to be sure of the reasons his orders were defiled. “Why?”

“Many reasons” Lancelot side eyed him. “Safety, food, coin, a warm bed.”

“It shouldn’t be this way.”

“It shouldn’t” Lancelot agreed, but none of them made a move to fix the problem, because, in the end of the day, there was no fixing it.

Despite the urge to pull some of those boys from the field and send them to their mothers, Arthur knew that Camelot needed soldiers and knights. One day, those same boys would guard his walls and fight his enemies, one of these days, with his new rules concerning the knights code, one of those boys might even sit at his table.

“If a man joins my guard only for food and coin, how can I trust that he will understand what it means to be honest and just? Brave?”

For a while he wondered if Lancelot understood his doubts, as the knight took his time to think of his words. Eventually he answered. “Is that all that different from a man who joins the knights for the glory? I think that every man has its ambitions, sire, the only thing that changes is who is teaching them.”

That brought him a smile. “Which you seem to be good in doing, Sir Lancelot.”

Behind him he could almost hear Merlin’s smile. At his side, Lancelot spared him a look that was both surprised and curious.

“Sire?”

“I don’t have time to train anyone personally anymore, at least not at the moment and Sir Brennis has proven to me that his pride matters more than these men’s learning. I was thinking of putting you on the job.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur turn to look at him, but Lancelot had his gaze lowered. “I thought I was needed out there. There are still bandits roaming these lands and with the recent rumors...”

Arthur frowned. “You heard about that.”

“Yes.”

Still, Lancelot didn’t met his gaze, and Arthur grimaced. If his knights knew about what was happening, he supposed it was too much to hope that the rest of the castle hadn’t heard it yet. “You heard about Morgana.”

The news had arrived last night.

The Sarrum’s wife called herself queen. The Sarrum of Amata was dead. Sorceresses were said to be responsible.

Names were never given, but it slowly became clear to everyone that Morgana and her sister had been involved. The news had brought a long debate to his council. Many were worried that Amata might attack in retaliation and although the two nations had never been friendly, his uncle had dismissed the idea. Morgana was a criminal, and Camelot had no fault in what happened.

Of course, Lord Hector had been inflamed in his ideas of war, and others had followed him, perhaps out of fear. Arthur didn’t want any of that though, in fact, he didn’t wish to think of Morgana at all, except that she seemed to always be close by, like a shadow fleeing the eye.

“Amata is not that far from Camelot, sire. To be honest, I thought I would be of more use out there.”

“Nonsense, there are many knights that can fight. I’ve already sent Gwaine to patrol our borders with Amata. I have Percival and Elyan out there tracking any outlaws still roaming our lands. Besides, the winter will keep Camelot safe from invaders. What I need is someone that will make sure these boys are ready when the snows start melting.” He smirked. “Come on, Lancelot, you can’t tell me you would like to be away all the time.”

“No, not at all.”

His knight still seemed unsure, but Arthur didn’t know if he had the energy to keep arguing. “Listen, whatever happened in Amata, it doesn’t concern you and even if it did, we can’t do anything without further information. Camelot is safe, I promise.”

As safe as I can make it. He added in his mind wondering how he would sell the appointment to the rest of his council. He knew his dismissal of the rules of knighthood had not been done without resentment, Sir Brennis was just one more sign of that, he was sure of it. Arthur was, however, sure that Lancelot was perfect for the position of mater-of-arms. That man was willing to give his life for a good cause, he had a good heart and courage. From killing the griffin to risking his life for Gwen. Who else could teach the recruits about things like courage, fortitude and discipline?

After a long pause in which Arthur could feel himself growing restless, Lancelot finally nodded. “It will be an honor, sire.”

“Good, that is good. Carry on then” Arthur awkwardly tapped the man’s shoulder and turned to go back inside, where the rest of his duties were still calling him.

Around him, the roads grew more and more busy as villages that were too small sent their populations to shelter in Camelot. Barrels were rolled from one side to the other, and already he could hear the new blacksmith working in the distance. Amid the chaos, that is when he saw her, walking across the courtyard, carrying a bundle in her arms. When her eyes met him, she smiled, and he reciprocated without thinking, taking in the circles under her eyes. She looked as tired as he felt.

“Merlin?”

“Sire?”

“I want you to be available tonight.”

“Well, actually, I had this thing I need to do and...”

“I’m sure nothing you have to do is more important than this, so shut up and listen.”

He spoke clearly, leaving no space for errors. Merlin could be a clumsy fool, but Arthur trusted him with important things, besides he didn’t seem sick or anything. The incident where his servant had almost passed out in front of him was almost a week old now, and sometimes Arthur could feel the reborn terror of it coming back. This normalcy, it helped, it made it seem once more that despite Morgana, the kingdom, his father, Merlin would always be there.

After that, his day passed in a hurry. A meeting with Geoffrey, a meeting with his uncle, a meeting with the steward, orders were giving and decisions were made, all to make sure his people would get through winter. That was what ruling meant, he was slowly realizing. Planning, planning, planning and, on occasion, dealing with the pesky surprises that were more than unwelcome.

As night came along, he did however found himself content as he entered his chambers to find Merlin finishing the preparations.

“Everything ready?”

“Yes, well, as ready as it can be.”

He stopped to examine the table. The food looked delicious, the silverware was glinting and the plates were clean. He raised a spoon under the firelight and let the metal glint under his stare. “Well, thank you, Merlin. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Only...” His servant stopped halfway to the door. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What is that?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a proper meal without a well provided service, right? Usually that would mean having my servant serving us wine till the late hours of the night and all that stuff.” He watched Merlin’s face crumbling, the beginnings of a sharp retort already on his lips. He was so easy to get a rise of sometimes, although his wit was not as entertaining as other’s. “I kid of course, off you go.”

“Wait, you’re not finding new ways to torture me? That is a new one.”

“Are you questioning my generosity? Perhaps I should put you to work after...”

“Nothanksgottago!” The door banged shut and Arthur chuckled, the sound was foreign, but he allowed himself to feel it all the same.

“You seem cheerful”

Sure enough, Gwen was standing where Merlin had been a moment ago, wearing the colors of a servant, with the skin shining with sweat and the hair slightly disheveled. She obviously had been working hard. “More so now.”

She smiled. “I’m sorry for my appearance. Gaius needed some help today, and I didn’t want to be late.”

“Nonsense, you should know I would wait the whole night for you.”

Gwen smiled, walking forward as Arthur took her hand and pulled the chair for her. “It has been a while since we did this.”

I know, Arthur thought guiltily.

The food was very good. The chicken had been roasted carefully with lemon juice and onions, with a side of boiled potatoes and carrots which tasted great whenever he took bite. Swallowing the food, he looked over at Gwen, licking his lips in search for words.

“I know we haven’t seen much of each other, lately.”

“Are you feeling bad about that? You shouldn’t, I know it must be hard, being regent and all.” Gwen’s words were soft and Arthur lowered his fork.

“I wouldn’t have done it without you, you’ve been of so much help.”

“I did nothing Arthur.”

“You...”

“Nothing than any other servant wouldn’t have done, you know that.” Her words were true, and her smile gentle, taking away from the harshness of those facts.

Shaking his head, Arthur poked at his food for a bit, trying to think of something else to say. Gwen’s company had always intrigued him, and it had always been pleasant, but now, the conversation felt so brittle, their worlds so disconnected he was not sure where to go from there. Shoving a carrot into his mouth, he chewed on it carefully, while Gwen looked around his chambers. The silence bothered him.

He started to say something only for her to do the same. They stopped, started again and burst into laughter when the action repeated itself. Arthur shook his head. “Sorry, I remember this being easier.”

“What was easier, talking to me or charming girls?” He felt a blush rising to his cheeks, before he could even think of a retort.

“I’ll have you know that there weren’t as many girls as rumors might say.” He was well aware of some of the gossip that run around about him.

“I understand, Arthur, believe me.”

He nodded, he could guess that. He remembered how the death of her father had affected her presence in the castle, people had whispered about her allegiances, about what secrets she might have. He also reminded that Morgana had been the one to come to him to stop those, but that fact was enough to diminish his appetite. Quickly he changed the subject.

“I must admit, I always understood how much pressure my father was under, wearing the crown, but this.” He paused, frowning. “It seems my attention is required every single moment of the day. Just this afternoon I learned there are four keeps whose lords died without heirs. Four. My father had named them just after Cenred’s first attack and now I have to name them again.”

“That is horrible.” Gwen said. “Those battles, they hurt us badly, didn’t they?”

Too late, Arthur realized he might have ruined the mood again. He sighed tiredly. “Things will settle down though.”

“Arthur.” She was looking at him through her eyelashes, her brown eyes were captivating. “I understand our situation very well, you don’t have to hide it from me, you know?”

“I know!” He hurried to say. “I mean, I do know that, but I wished we could keep things happy between us.”

Her smile was sad. “I understand, believe me, I do, but I’m afraid that would be a lot like lying, won’t it? As much as we wish, the world still exists outside this chambers.”

She was right of course. He couldn’t play pretend, that wasn’t something a responsible ruler should do. It was dangerous, it could make him blind to important matters, but that didn’t stop him from grasping straws of joy where he could find.

“Even so, I was thinking, if perhaps you wouldn’t enjoy to get away for a while. A horse ride, before the snows fall.”

Gwen blinked. “Is that, wise? Won’t there be rumors?”

“Rumors?”

“Yes, I mean, people will speak about there been something between us, won’t they?”

He paused, considering his next words. “Isn’t there? Something between us?”

“Perhaps.” Her smile was sad. “If we ever find the time to figure that out, but I know how that would seem. I’m low born, Arthur, and you’re a prince, as much as love is sweet, I’m not sure...”

“I told my father once that I would only ever merry for love, Gwen, and I intend to keep that promise.”

“Arthur...” The food was still half eaten, but the way she spoke was soft, that tilt of her head a familiar sight that comforted him in a way. “You know, I don’t mind hearing about your day Arthur, who knows, perhaps I might even offer good counsel.”

He blinked, she seemed determined. Whatever was unsaid, these promises that they had implied to one another, he hoped with every fiber of his being that he might keep them, because as he cleared his throat, he realized how much he also needed her.

“Well, in that case, you should hear what Lord Cygnus proposes as a new taxes policy...”

* * *

 

  
**"O drakon, e male soi ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!”**

Usually, Merlin would barely feel the wait for the dragon’s arrival, but on that day, he caught himself pacing the clearing, his thoughts in wild jumbles as every breath seemed to take forever.

Already he had grown impatient, having to wait for the right opportunity. Camelot had been so busy with incoming caravans, travelers and supplies he couldn’t risk calling a dragon so close to the citadel. Today though, since Arthur would spend his night with Gwen, he finally found a proper timing to call for counsel, something he was in much need of.

Gaius had done his best of course, urging him to be careful because they had no idea of Morgause’s real intentions, but Merlin could tell the physician was as scared as he felt. Besides, it seemed very obvious to him that Morgause and Morgana’s intentions were anything but good. They would use their magic against Camelot like they had done time and again, he would have to be the one standing between and how many allies they could muster.

It was frustrating, it angered him. Arthur was already ruling but it seemed that magic would only be a tool of the enemy, forever used for evil and eroding the chances of opening Arthur’s eyes so could build Albion as it should be.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts, he barely felt the ground trembling under the weight of the Great Dragon. “Greetings, young warlock.”

“Took you a while”

“You think I would resist a dragonlord’s call? As a warlock you should better learn to see the rhythm of the world itself, Merlin.” The dragon seemed amused, taking him in. “You seem anxious.”

“I have reason to be.”

“Why? Is it the makings of a kingdom already too much for you to handle?”

“No, I...” He paused, blinking at the dragon’s calm demeanor. “You don’t know.”

Kilgharrah cocked his head to the side, ancient eyes narrowing behind the night. “What is it, Merlin, that I don’t know?”

“Morgana”

“The witch has lost an important battle, it is within reason that she would need time to recover.”

Merlin shook his head. He remembered the last time he saw her. In the throne room of Camelot, bursting into it like a storm of pure magic, saving her sister and disappearing. He remembered her eyes then, pale green and dangerous. Even after he tried to kill her, even after he learned of her shifting loyalties, he had never seen such crystallized hatred in her eyes. Slowly, he explained everything to Kilgharrah, how he felt on that day and how Morgause’s voice spoke in his mind, summoning those with magic to somewhere in the east. He even told him about the news of Amata that Arthur received.

“… Now I’m worried, if she killed a king already, what will stop her from killing more? What is she even doing? Is she gathering forces to attack Camelot? Do you think she will come after Arthur? Everyone thought she would remain quiet, but now she moves, why?”

“I don’t know, Merlin, but beware. Nothing good can come from the ambitions of the witch, she was always destined to stand between the present and the bright future of Albion.”

“What should I do? What if she actually gains the loyalty of other sorcerers?”

“I know it must pain you, young warlock, but just like a moth to a flame, some sorcerers will indeed find the witch’s methods attractive.” The dragon lowered his head mournfully. “It will be up to you to face them, just as you faced every other threat to Camelot.”

Merlin knew that. Heck, he had long stopped regretting the killing of people like him, who had magic pulsing in their souls. Those people, they were often twisted, immersed in their own hatred, not carrying who got hurt that got in their way. Morgana herself had killed how many innocents already? Suddenly, he remembered pleading with Morgana in the catacombs as the Rowan Staff pulsed with power behind her.

_"Morgana, please, I beg you. Woman and children are dying, the city will fall."_

_She had barely paused before answering, the word spilling from her lips like the poison he had once given her. "Good"_

Merlin knew better now.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Be sure of it, Merlin, for a confrontation is inevitable.” Kilgharrah unfolded his wings, his shadow covering the clearing as he raised his eyes to the skies. “I shall, in turn, keep my perception sharp. If I hear anything, you’ll know.”

“Thanks.”

When the dragon disappeared, Merlin remained, still, in the night. He had half of mind of following the path Morgause’s call had showed him, walk east and north until his instincts told him of the right place, just to understand. But doing that would mean leaving Camelot, and that he couldn’t do, or else he risked becoming the new town’s drunk with Gaius’ tavern excuses. As he debated the future with himself, he felt something in the air, and caught a glimpse of a tiny white speckle landing in his hand. The snowflake felt cold as it melted in his body heat.

As more of them showed up, cast from the sky to cover the land, Merlin reflected on everything that happened since he came to Camelot, his fights. Of all his enemies, none of them understood that violence would never be the way. Arthur was.

The prince was the key to freeing magic and uniting Albion, and it was his destiny to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one was a doozy. I really always felt like Merlin becomes more ruthless in later season and I wanted to sort of dig a little into that now, hopeffully it was all right, but if it wasn't please let me know. Just understant that I'm working hard to never let characters out of the hook for shit they have done, even Morgana has a lot of things in her conscience that will make it hard for people to trust her going forward. Anyway, please read and review. thanks for kudos XD


	13. Late Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray, another chapter!

During her life, Morgause had seen many armies bivouacking after a long march. Cenred’s army, when it rested, could cover the land as far as the eye could see, with fires burning so strong the night would seem to vanish and the voices of men carried out like thousands of angry bees, drunk on promises of blood and riches.

 

In comparison, the camp in front of her was remarkably small. It spread over the valley like spilled wine, with shelters and fire pits protecting men from the cold, since the number of tents was noticeably small. Above them, waving in the air, were the banners of war. Blue ox, pack of dogs, yellow snakes, bloody axes and towers in as many colors as there were unimaginative men in the world, but what called for her gaze was the scarlet tree against dark cloth, sheltering the closest part of the camp to her position and where her people would be.

 

The scouts that had sighed her two days ago now formed around her flanks, their mounts seemed eager for food and rest as much as herself as they entered the camp. A sudden flood of magic told her she had just passed through a ward, coming from the other side unharmed and curious. The men escorting her were clearly uncomfortable here, despite the beard and age, they were like green boys and her presence didn’t go unnoticed judging by the stares. They could probably feel the touches of lingering magic from her call. She had been brief then, with the Dochraid keeping the magic running through the Rowan Staff, which had turned to dust upon the completion of her task. Her hands still held the mark of the power, seared into her skin in twin stripes, but they didn’t bother her as much as the parting words from the old creature.

 

Instead of focusing on that, Morgause chose to watch the druid marks and robes amidst men holding swords and spears. She saw a group of about two dozen women all chanting in their own circle, while over their small camp, a improvised banner with the mark of the brendui flew free in the wind. All around her, she could see them, and feel their magic. Sorcerers. Both boys and girls young enough to understand their gifts, and old men and women who fled and hid. Weak, simple, untaught, they came in all kinds and shapes and the world seemed to pulse with their presence. They were all working hard too, judging by the activity. Ditches were dug, kitchens were erected and even a prisoner's camp seemed to be in use on the far side. Here and there, Morgause glimpsed groups mixing poultices, and powders, while arrows and bolts were assembled under whispers of magic words.

 

“They’re in there, my lady.” They had brought her deep into the camp it seemed, to a large dark tent that was probably designed as a meeting place. Dismounting, she pushed her reins towards the man who spoke, adjusted the gloves around her hands and walked past the guards, no bothering to hear what they had to say.

 

She had time to catch the wisps of conversation when the voices fell shut, with every eye suddenly moving to her figure. Only the pale green were welcome, as her sister rose from her chair at the head of the table. Morgause smiled, studying the people around her. From one glimpse she could tell who had magic and who didn’t. The nobles of Essetir stood all to her right, a woman with a blue ox on her dress, a young lad with a pack of dogs, and two older man, their clothes dark and plain. Ahead of them all was a tall middle aged man with three yellow snakes on his doublet, and a scar marring a long brooding face, which bristled right upon her entrance.

 

"Who dares to interrupt our meeting? Do you wish to be put on stocks woman?"

 

"She is my sister, Lord Madoc." Her sister's clarification had the benefit of making the man blink dumbly, but he made no effort to apologize.

 

“High Priestess Morgause, it is an honor to meet you.” The man who spoke bore the druid sigil on the side his neck, his balding head and manners almost making her disregard the warrior’s gaze that studied her with sharp interest. “I’m Ruadan, if you please.”

 

“Ruadan, you’re a druid.”

 

“Haven’t been for a long time, I’m afraid.”

 

Morgause nodded, she could understand the story well enough, it was an old and very common tale.

 

“Well, I’ll be dammed” The second man on her sister’s side was a bit taller and clearly more unabashed, his eyes had a curious glint to them that Morgause immediately didn’t like. “I didn’t know you had a sister, my lady.”

 

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Alvarr.” Morgana said motioning to the rest of the meeting. “I think we can all agree that we need a break from our discussions. If you would be so kind I would receive my sister now, for I missed her so.”

 

"I'll say, we have much to think about." The redhaired woman claimed, whispering something to her sister before offering her arm to the lad. "What say we have supper together, Lord Trito? Our parents knew each other if I recall."

 

"O-of course, my lady."

 

Upon leaving, the woman nodded her way, and the rest of the occupants hesitantly followed.

 

When the tent was finally empty, Morgause, at last, felt her sister’s arms around her, the hug being something she didn't realized she missed. “I take it everything is well.”

 

“As well as can be expected I think.”

 

Morgause nodded. “I saw a camp of prisoners out there. Is Lot really that close or did you get in trouble while I was gone?”

 

“Those are renegades, actually. Their leader tried to kill me.”

 

“What!?”

 

Her question was very close to a screech, but her sister simply moved over to a small table with a silver flagon. “Can I offer you anything? Wine? You must be tired.”

 

“What do you mean someone tried to kill you? Explain!”

 

“It wasn’t something I couldn’t handle. She had tried once, in my other life. I took care of it.” She paused, furrowing her brow as if thinking of something else. “No one died.”

 

“That is no excuse, how can we fight to free magic when our own people are trying to kills us?”

 

Morgana shook her head. “Our people are not trying to kill us. The woman had personal reasons, very good ones.”

 

“She better be dead, whoever she might be.”

 

“Her magic is sealed."

 

"Sealed?" Morgause studied Morgana carefully. She wanted to press, but the way her sister seemed to sag all of the sudden, made her balk. It was clear then that she wouldn’t back down, she would have better luck asking a stranger about what happened. “Just, gimme some of that wine, would you?”

 

“It’s Lady Cerys’, she sent us plenty of supplies and her prayers.”

 

Morgause took the offered cup and frowned as sister poured the rich scented red. “No men?”

 

“No, not everyone wants to compromise. Lord Belmont sent us pretty much all the gray beards from his lands, with no sigils and no way to be tracked back to him. He is probably just getting rid of useless mouths, but I won’t complain. No one wants to risk Lot’s wrath if we lose. On the other hand the big man you saw was Lord Madoc. As soon as he heard of our movements, he rode south away from the border and promised to fight by our side, as long as he is allowed to be king of his own lands.”

 

“And here I was thinking it would take longer for kings to start popping up.” The wine was good, it burned deliciously and eased her nerves as she nodded along, carefully storing the information for later. She would need to make acquaintance of these people herself in whatever short time they had. “So, considering we only have part of a already crippled country, how many men do we have?”

 

“Last count was a little over five thousand.” Her sister took a piece of scroll from the table and read along. “Three hundred horse, a thousand bowmen, and the rest are our dear pitchforks and scythes, with some swords and spears thrown into the mix.”

 

 _Too few_ , was Morgause’s first thought, even before she uttered her next question. “And the enemy?”

 

“Twenty thousand men, or as many as to make no difference. All trained killers.” Morgana grimaced. “We received word that he reached the border yesterday. Apparently King Bayard was all too happy to let him through his kingdom. He is marching fast, pillaging the countryside and leaving the keeps behind.”

 

“He wants to take Cenred’s castle.”

 

“And we are standing right in his way.”

 

Morgause downed her wine quickly and poured herself another cup. Her sister seemed amused, but she couldn’t see the fun in it. Her whole life she fought when victory was, at least, close to certain. She never dared to have a smaller army, or any disadvantage at all. Whenever she struck at Camelot if had been after careful planning and consideration, taking into account every factor, but even with that they had failed. Now here she was, at the edge of winter, with a way too bold sister, who someone already tried to kill while she was away, and the Dochraid’s blabbering echoing in her ears.

 

“This is madness.”

 

“You haven’t heard about our own people yet.” Morgana picked up another scroll. “There are more than two hundred sorcerers out there, among brendui, druids and renegades. We called, and they came. Can’t you feel their magic around you? When was the last time you felt this much power in one place?”

 

 _Helva_. Morgause thought, shivering at the memory alone. “I can’t recall”

 

“And there are more arriving everyday.”

 

“But we can’t really wait too much, can we?”

 

“No” Morgana bit at her lower lip, and moved the maps over the table, placing a piece of carved wood on one side. “We only have this night to decide where to make our stand. After that it will be impossible to get ahead of Lot.”

 

“I take the discussion I interrupted was about that.”

 

“Yes, I heard enough blabbering about hills to last a lifetime, I’ll tell you that.” Morgana adjusted the maps, and Morgause watched the lines that traced the land of Essetir. They seemed very rich and detailed, and were probably the work of some highly skilled map maker. “Lord Madoc thinks we have to attack, cross the Nyn, steal a march and fall upon Lot under the cover of the night. Alvarr, between his rants about Uther, keeps suggesting we divide our forces and eat at his army little by little. Lady Elaine wants to take Cenred’s Castle and force a siege and Ruadan wants battle, but speaks of caution."

 

Morgause closed her eyes, in her mind she could see each of those plans, and all the possible difficulties they would bring. Catching an army by surprise, one of mercenaries and experienced warriors at that, was damn near impossible. A war of attrition would only bring them to a situation close to what happened in Camelot whenever a small band became big enough to be a threat, and Cenred’s Castle was too big to be defended by five thousand peasants. No, they needed one single battle, something decisive that would be the equivalent of a war cry, a show of power that would even bring the cowards to their side. She was sure Morgana had already considered all that.

 

"I think this is the right time for you to take control." Morgause pointed out. “What is your plan, dear sister?”

 

Morgana smirked. “I thought you would never ask. We know that Lot wants his uncle’s seat, so we use his hurry against him.”

 

What followed was an strategy that was both as bold and daring as Morgana would feel sometimes. It had careless edges, that Morgause helped smooth, and dangerous gambles she tempered with her own experience. They had pieces for sorcerers, warriors and what small cavalry they had. Men were moved upon the board according to their abilities and power, enchantments were discussed that could turn the tide of battle. It caused arguments, and teasing, but when they were done, the wine was gone, night had fallen and there was no doubt it was the best battle plan they could come up with.

 

"I must say, we could use more men, and I would feel a lot better if you had a vision about tomorrow." Morgause looked up, but her sister was still silent. In her ear, there were whispers. "Except you can't see the future, can you?"

 

Her sister frowned, clutching the bracelet to her wrist. "How did you know?"

 

"The Dochraid told me." She revealed, remembering the presence of the old creature that lingered on the cave, just on the edge of the sun. She had been about to leave when more words were offered in that raspy dreadful voice. "I also haven't felt much in the sense of visions. I'm starting to think it has something to do with your death."

 

Morgana nodded, carefully rubbing her temples as she plopped down on her chair, her hands were playing with a  sloppy piece carved with a rowan tree. "What do you think?"

 

"It's like I told you before, what you described is unheard of."

 

"But you must have some ideas."

 

"I might, but I would rather keep them to myself for now." Her sister blinked her way and chuckled, her fingers tapping on the table to a tuneless song. Morgause herself could feel the buzz of the alcohol like a pleasant poultice against the cold. "The girl who tried to kill you, how many are following her?"

 

"About thirty people." Morgana leaned back, looking upwards to where the roof of the tent shook with small burst of wind, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in unkempt waves. "She is just a girl."

 

"We could use her men." She snapped her fingers, feeling her hands sweaty inside the leather. "You said she tried this before, in your other life, but now you sealed her magic instead of having her killed, why?"

 

Morgana shrugged. "We should call the council back, we need to get this army moving before dawn."

 

* * *

 

She watched the beetle crawling into the earth, small and fragile and completely oblivious to how quickly she could kill it.

 

Around her, she sunk into the music of shouts, horses and iron. There was a lot of movement going on, at least as far as she could see under the light of torches. She saw people running here and there, dismounting shelters and whatnot, the song of a dismantling camp and Mauren enjoyed the distraction to test the ropes one more time, reaching with her senses only to find her magic as silent as a hibernating bear. The bloody woman knew how to do her spells it seemed, because the poppet she used to bind her powers wasn’t even close by. Sighing, she could only sink back to her knees, leaning against the pole she was tied to, her men seeming to lower their shoulders in sync at her actions. _  
_

Cursing to herself, Mauren considered their situation. They were arrested in a enemy camp, surrounded by people who had sent her evil looks as soon as they learned of her attempt. Her men had known, they had followed her bravely, just like they followed her brother once. Of course, that loyalty itself had a price, for not one of them reacted when she was dragged out of the woman’s tent with a sword at her throat. They loved her too much to risk her life. Now, now she could only straighten her shoulders and show them that she wasn’t giving in, even if death was to be her destiny. They couldn't listen to her, been too far,  so instead of words she had to show them strength.

 

With that in mind, Mauren took a deep breath, raising her gaze only to gasp at the sight of the silent sorceress standing in front of her. The hush of silence around indicated that her men had seen her as well, but they couldn’t possibly know how it felt to have those pale eyes staring them down, much like in the tent.

 

It had all gone according to plan until that point.

 

As soon as she heard the name of Morgana Pendragon, Mauren had known what she needed to do. She had presented herself as an ally, just like many other sorcerers she saw arriving each day, hoping against hope that she would be granted the right opportunity. Yet, somehow, she had lived after downing a whole cup of poisoned wine. Somehow those green eyes didn’t have need of words to paralyze her. Somehow, justice had been denied to her, and she cursed the world for it.

 

Now, well, now there was a horrible taste in her mouth that Mauren used to spit at the woman’s feet. “Cunt.”

 

“Were you really aiming at my feet?” She smirked as a response and, to her surprise, the priestess merely nodded. Behind her, the Blood Guards stood like carved shadows, as if even the light of the torches dared not to touch them. “Your trick with the poison, It was quite smart. Had you made your attempt a few days ago I might gladly haven taken it, actually.”

 

“You did drink it.” Mauren pointed out.

 

“Warding my body from poison was the first thing I learned to do when my powers grew strong enough.”

 

Mauren huffed. That explained it, if she was a fully realized High Priestess, then mortal means were mostly useless against her. “Now what? Are you going to kill me?”

 

“I have no wish of killing tonight.”

 

Mauren was skeptical, she nodded to the camp around them. “Funny you should say that while bringing all those idiots to slaughter.”

 

“All that I want is to bring freedom to our people.” She seemed almost like a girl when she sat down on the dirty, her skit pooling around her legs. “This alliance is the key. Right now, there are more sorcerers fighting together than there has ever been in this land. We only need one victory, and our people will be free. They will have a home, and no one will need to fear for their lives and that of their loved ones."

 

“Oh please” Mauren barked. She was hungry and cold, but she wasn’t stupid. “I’ve been here for a few days now and I've watched your alliance, my lady. Do you really think it will bare any fruit? Sure, you might defeat Lot, but then what? Those sorcerers might flock to you now, but that is just because they have been in the dark for so long a speck of light is enough to get them moving. Those nobles, selfish and cowards as they are, they will turn away from you as soon as Lot is gone. There isn’t some high ideal uniting this army. You picked up scraps of broken people and stitched them together with a thread of despair."

 

Morgana cocked her head, considering her for a moment and Mauren prepared herself for a string of curses. She wasn’t afraid of dying, not under the blade of a red cloaked knight, and not at the hands of an enemy, but her answer came in the form of a simple statement. "You're right."

 

“What?”

 

“Only a mad person hears the truth and twists it. You’re right, everything you said, except for one thing.” Mauren fidgeted, feeling the complaint from her muscles, that woman sounded way too reasonable. “They might be united by despair, for now, but you can’t be sure that it will always be like this. Uther brought our kind to the edge, and the nobles see us as tools, and it's imperative that change must come, dangerous as it is. You think this whole thing will end in disaster, but what if you’re wrong? It won’t be easy, but what if there is actual peace and prosperity waiting on the other side?”

 

Now Mauren had to laugh.  "That is rich coming from you." She struggled against her bonds, pulling at the ropes so she could glare at Morgana even from her knees. “You! The woman who had a chance of ridding the world of Camelot’s knights and instead shot a bunch of peasants! The woman who was Uther Pendragon's precious ward and did nothing for years! The woman who put a dagger on my brother’s back!”

 

She watched that face for any reaction, but it remained as still as a water mirror, and then “I’m sorry.”

 

For a moment, Mauren didn’t understand what had been said. The Lady Morgana was still there, and that was clearly her voice, but the words didn’t quite seem real enough, and when they became so they only enraged her.

 

“Sorry? You bitch!” There was now a familiar sting behind her eyes. That woman was mocking her, and it was worse than if she had died. _How dared she?_ “How dare you say those words?! You took my brother from me! You took him!”

 

“I did.”

 

They were only two words. There was no denial, no excuses, only admission. And just like that Mauren felt something inside her snap, she lunged forward with her magic, the words like a roar, and yet, despite everything, nothing happened. She struggled and pushed and Morgana Pendragon barely felt a lock of that unkempt hair moving. Her magic was deaf to her plight and as that fact hit her she slumped against her bonds. Overwhelming, her failure seemed to swallow her whole. Panting, Mauren stared down at the ground, swallowing back her frustration like a piece of coal down to her beating heart. The soil was worn between her knees, and there was the beetle again, crawling out of the dirty she had unwittingly disturbed. Its leg was broken and the little thing limped away, fragile, determined and oblivious.

 

“I wanted to go with him that day, did you know? I didn’t trust you. To me you seemed just like a little girl, desperate to do things in a world you barely understood. Tauren didn’t trust you either. He told me so, but it was such a good chance, he said. In one day, with one blow we would’ve ended Camelot’s reign of terror.” Something uncomfortable had dislodged away from her chest, she felt lightheaded and unable to stop. “I waited, and when the men returned they were so few. They had been lucky. Something happened, they couldn't remember what, but they were knocked unconscious. The Knights of Camelot didn't care, those who didn't wake up were killed with their eyes still closed. I had to hear about my brother’s death from the survivors, and then from the realm. The heroic tale of the Lady Morgana saving her guardian. The glorious end to the criminal Tauren. My brother’s head was rotting atop of Camelot’s walls and I was hearing songs about you.”

 

She witnessed a few drops falling down on the ground, tears that she thought had dried up long ago, and the sight disgusted her. To shed them in front of an enemy was more shameful than anything else. Around her, the breeze touched her, cold and sharp and impartial. On the edge of her vision, she could feel the woman’s presence, the flaring of a light and then the ropes falling away from her wrists.  Her magic returned immediately, like blood rushing towards a numb limb, but still Mauren didn't move.

 

“I told you I had no wish to kill anyone.” There was a pause while Mauren hesitantly rubbed her wrists, a thousand spells racing through her mind, to break necks, and slice veins, all deadly.  “I do however have an offer that I can make you."

 

Mauren waited.

 

"You're free to go, however, you and your man could be invaluable in the coming fight. So I'll make you a deal. You take part in the battle, and when it is over, you can kill me."

 

The beetle was still moving away, towards the High Priestess and being completely unaware of the force it was approaching. Mauren looked away from it, boldly, she met the sorceress’ gaze, crowned by falling snowflakes that she only now noticed. There was something oddly familiar in those eyes, it almost seemed like regret. "Are you joking?"

 

"Not at all. Anytime after the battle, you can come to me and take my life, I won't even resist."

 

"If you're a High Priestess, you're not easy to kill."

 

"That will be up to you, won't it?" Saying that, the woman picked up a knife.

 

Mauren only understood a few of the words, but she could grasp the binding of an enchanted oath, the intentions passing between them as swiftly as a river. There was no hiding that Morgana Pendragon was speaking the truth, and Mauren had no idea how to react to that but by wiping her tears. In front of her, the High Priestess stopped short of getting up, she fished something from the ground and whispered a simple word. The Beetle crawled away, completely healed, and Mauren sat down, alone in her open cell, wondering about safety, and love and images of a dead Morgana.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is here to show some of the issues that Morgana is going to face with the people she has put together. Don't worry, Morgana is smart. I brought in Alvarr back as well, and there will be more familiar faces. As I say, I think it's important that a character's deeds don't go without repercussions, and I always felt there was a bigger story to tell after what happened to Tauren. Anyways, the next chapter will be called: MORGANA. please read, review. criticism and counsel are appreciated. thanks and see you next time.


	14. Morgana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this chapter is about Morgana, and we finally take a little look at her memories.

It was a cold day, of autumn leaves and lingering summer rains.

“She is beautiful” spoke Lord Gorlois, swirling over her vision, his eyes were gentle and full of wonder, as a huge finger reached out to caress her cheek.

“Yes, our little fairy.” Lady Vivienne looked nothing like that paintings that had hanged from Tintagel’s walls, but Morgana recognized her all the same, tall and regal, hair like Morgause’s.

“Our daughter.” Her father frowned. “She is safe.”

Her mother stilled, her face falling completely as she looked away and her father noticed, it seemed. Bound by the memory, she could do nothing but watch as the man held her firm under her apologies.

“I should’ve never… There was no other way...”

“It doesn’t matter! Vivienne, my love, it doesn’t matter. As long as he believes, Morgana is safe, that matters.” They spoke softly and then without words, something passing between them, like a secret language that only true caring could conjure.

The memory disappeared, and Morgana felt the gushing laughter of her childhood filling her lungs, while the wonders painted before her eyes seemed to glow with morning due. Nights passed by her in storms of heroic tales, of knights and maidens and raging beasts defeated by noble heroes.

“Can I be a knight one day?” She had asked her father, his kind eyes were amused.

“Well, Camelot’s code allows only for noblemen to become knights.”

“So I can’t?”

“I didn’t say that” Lord Gorlois answered with a chuckle. “You see, being a knight it’s about more than wielding a sword, it’s about doing the right thing even when is hard. It’s about defending the weak, and protecting the innocent, it’s about speaking the truth and being brave. As long as you follow that, I don’t see why you can’t be your own knight.”

“You think mother would have let me?”

“I think, she would want you to be happy, more than anything.”

And she hugged him, her heart comforted, but her eyes hovering over the chair that was never used, belonging to a woman she knew only the shadow. Growing up, her mother might as well have been one character from a book, so well known through illustrations and the words of other people.

As a noble daughter she learned dancing, sewing, manners and conversation with wise old tutors who tittered and complained. You’re late, young lady. Pay attention, young lady. Don’t curse, young lady. One morning, her father put a practice sword in her hands, and she had one more thing to learn. You’re late, young lady. Pay attention, young lady. Put your weight behind the swing, young lady.

It was a flowery spring morning, and war whispered in the ears of men.

Her nightmare had her running from her chambers, passing the guards in desperate steps until she reached her father’s solar. She threw herself at him, pleading and begging him not go, to not leave her alone, for she had seen him in the battlefield, dead and rotting.

Her father, so wise, offered her a ghost of a smile, showing the wrinkles around his eyes and the dips of his cheeks. “Oh Morgana, you don’t understand, child. The people are suffering under Caerlon’s attack, and If I don’t bring my army north, innocents will die. People just like you and me.”

“But what if you die!?” She had asked.

“Sometimes we have to do the right thing, Morgana, despite the consequences. If I am to die for the right cause, then I would be proud of it” She didn’t want him to be proud, she wanted him alive. “I’ll have you know though, that your old father has been to many a battle before. I’ll come back.”

He did come back in the end, that much was truth. Gorlois returned to his seat in a casket of oak, draped with his noble coat of arms, three roaring lions between an ancient scarlet rune. He remained only for a vigil before Uther Pendragon took him away, to be buried on a proper place. She would come with, for her father had been a dear friend and she would need guidance and safety, but his eyes were not as soft as his words, they were fearful and hard. On the way to Camelot, she promised to never replace her father with the King.

She met Prince Arthur in the courtyard. He was small, covered in furs that made him waddle instead of walking, with a golden chain that hanged low on his belly. She did everything right, even the proper courtesies, but she would met him for real after he came running into her chambers, scared of the storms.

The day was fresh and smelt of spring.

She beat the prince in a sword fight that same morning, and took pleasure in the way his eyes widened before her victory, she had run to tell his father, it would certainly teach him to underestimate her again. Upon learning of her antics though, Uther forbid her from fighting, saying her lessons would be closely supervised from that moment on.

That night, as she cried in bed, the Prince came to see her, wondering if they could practice in secret. That night, she went to sleep much later, sore, bruised and reliving the scene of the boy falling on his butt time and again.

“You cheated!” He would accuse her, all righteous and pompous.

“Not my fault you’re so bad at this.” She said back and after giggling a little more, she reached out to help him to his feet.

Their bond grew inside the white stone of Camelot, little by little, in the easy way that children often did many other things, until they became tall, and he reached her height and suddenly she had to keep it a secret that she found him handsome.

_Bring back memories of when I used to beat you?_

_That never happened!_

The day was bright, hot as only summer could be.

Uther presented her with a new maid. She was a shy little thing, of wild brown curls and an endearing smile that was often aimed at the ground. A friend, her mind had supplied before anything else had reached her.

“I’m Morgana, what is your name?”

“Guinevere, if it pleases you, m-my lady.” She curtsied, risked a peek at her face and quickly looked away.

“Guinevere, that is a pretty name.” Her old self had reached for the girl’s hands, bringing her to seat on her bed.

“A-actually, my friends call me Gwen… I-I mean.. I’m sorry… I...”

“It’s all right, Gwen.” She needed a moment to realized the use of the nickname, and Morgana had felt her heart warming up. She showed her around her chamber, related the newest gossip around the court, and finally sent her home with new fabric as an welcome gift.

_...She is more than just my maid. She's my friend!_

The night was warm, suffocating, unlike the cold in her stomach.

The bark of Uther’s hunting party echoed across the whole of Camelot to announce its return, but she was too tired to hear about blood and dead animals. Occasionally she would accompany guests into the woods, fulfilling her duties as lady of the castle, but whether she was holding a hawk or a crossbow the activity never held much appeal.

  
He had rasped his knuckles on her door almost shyly, and when he finally stepped through, she took in the droplets of blood on his blond locks, and the red smears covering his boots and breeches. Not a word was spoken when she let him in, cleaning him up even as he stood motionless under her touch.

  
Uther had taken him out, to draw blood and be a man, but Arthur was never the sort. No, at least not back then. When he received a spear and a horse, and rode forth to kill, he was but a lad.

  
“What kind of prince would I be if I balked at the sight of blood?”

“The good kind, one that didn’t vomit in my chamber pot.” She said, listening to his chuckle. He was warm and the night was hot so her furs lay discarded on the ground.

“It was just a doe.” Arthur mumbled then, shaking his head. “There was just so much blood.”

“It was a doe, of course there would be blood.”

“The dogs, and then the men… They took the skin out and then…” Arthur drifted of, and Morgana felt his hands holding her closer, tighter, and she still held him. Somehow, they wouldn’t part until much later, and it was only to meet his eyes in the morning, his hair tussled from sharing her pillow.

They had been so young then, already of age, and yet young. She wanted to snap away from that memory, to brush it away with a passing hand and storming fists, but Morgause’s potion did its job and there was nothing to be done as she relived the moment when they came together in a desperate, hungry kiss.

The days were cold and smelled of ash.

Sorcerers were meant to be burned, criminals and traitors all of them. Magic is evil, people would say all around her, it corrupted the soul and brought chaos, but as she watched more executions happening before her eyes, by the axe or the fire, she wondered why everyone spoke of the magic instead of the people doing it and then, finally the word spread of a great victory. Singers were hired, a feast was prepared and men boasted about their killing until the sight of them made her sick.

Arthur rasped at her door again, but this time the blood hadn’t come from a doe. She asked only if it was true, the rumors about his special mission, and when he asked for comfort, comfort he was so desperate for, she turned away. It was all the answer she needed. He tried to apologize, as if the wounded was her and not the dead he made that night.

“Father, he told me to, he...“

“Arthur” She couldn’t bring herself to say more under the weight of her horror, and she couldn’t stand there and listen to him lying to himself either. Uther told him to raid the druid camp, now he might as well live with it. She couldn’t see his face, she almost wanted him to suffer. “Leave.”

That night she cried in Gwen’s arms, blaming her moon’s blood instead of the real reason, because she was not sure how to explain why the death of sorcerers caused her such grief. In time, she would forgive Arthur, in time she would learn to hide her tears and they would slowly drift into an easy friendship once more, but when her nightmares begun anew, when her magic finally dared to rise, she would remember his bloody clothes.

The day was blue, sunny, and it smelled of rot.

The axe fell, a head rolled over the flagstone and away from the body, and Mary Collins’ cry of grief struck Morgana like a stone to the heart.

“An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A son for a son.”

Of course, the woman’s pain never brought her the vengeance she desired. A young boy was there to stop it, with a silly grin and a tall lanky frame, he had saved Arthur’s life and from that point on, there was someone new in her life, yet again, but how could she have known that she would miss the rare suppers where Uther and Arthur seemed almost like family?

_...He is a lover._

She watched him his big ears and simple bravery. She watched him, his help and kindness and courage to help her smuggle a small druid boy away from Camelot. She watched him, ready to give his life for Arthur, for Gwen. She watched him and when the time came she rode forth from Camelot, sure of intent.

It was the one moment they had been all together, four souls all united to protect Merlin’s home, because that was just the power he had back then, to unite them all in common cause. They had all fought, together with the villagers, the victory tinged by grief, but a victory nonetheless. In Ealdor they stood their ground, and in Ealdor she had been sure of their noble purpose, and they were unbeatable.

Friends.

The word brushed her thoughts, painting her life until she heard Gwen’s wails of grief echoing across Camelot, sending sparks to lit something inside her, something that had been smoldering for years but never taken shape until that moment.

 _I picked these for you_. Gwen told her, smiling with a bunch of flowers in her hands.

The day was gray, hot and oppressing.

She stormed into the council chamber to face the King of Camelot.

“You have blood on your hands, Uther Pendragon! Blood that will never wash off!”

“May I remind you, that you’re speaking to your king?”

“May I remind you, that a king is wise and just? You’re neither. You act only with the sword.”

“You know nothing of what it means to be king. The fate of Camelot rests in my hands. It’s my responsibility to protect the people from this land from its enemies”

“Then the kingdom is doomed, for one by one you make enemies of us all!”

“You speak treason, Morgana.”

“Only a mad man hears the truth as treason.”

“Take care child, or I’ll have you restrained.”

“You just try.”

Heavy chains locked around her wrist, tight as they were, they chaffed her skin until it was angry red and painful.

Arthur’s face is grieving and pleading all at once, it was cold and warm and cold again, but never the uncertainty of their relationship had been so evident as the moment she walked out of her cell.

“You’re a better man than your father. Always were.”

And he was. He was, of course he was, she had always believed it so, even when he was acting like a prick, because she had seen it. The small acts of kindness and chivalry that he would practice when no one else was looking, as if a good heart was something to be ashamed of.

“You cannot face this! Please, Arthur. I have seen terrible things! You cannot go!”

He was dying and she cried. He was dying and she felt sorrow. He was dying and she stood at the door, wishing to see him, to feel him, to maybe replicate the actions of a night long ago. He was dying and she felt nothing. He was dying and she wanted him dead. He was dying, but she was already dead.

 _My Lady_ , he said, offering his arm witch she was all to glad to grab.

_My Champion._

The day was rainy and her nightmare had begun.

The fire brushed over her curtains and her window blowing out into the storm. Looking back, it seemed appropriate enough. Because after that her fear spread through her like wildfire, turning her life into ashes. She felt it all over again. The desperation the uncertainty, the growing frustration whenever Gaius looked her in the eyes and offered another potion, and suddenly, she was once more in those quarters, staring into the blue eyes of a brave, innocent servant.

“...You can trust me, Morgana. You know you can.”

And she had. By the Goddess, she trusted him. She was alone, and scared and she had known Merlin at that point. In front of her stood the same young man who risked his life for Arthur time and again. The same man who once marched to Uther Pendragon’s face and said he had magic, for Gwen. Surely, surely, she was one of them, she was a friend as well, she was there in Ealdor as well. Surely she deserved the same protection.

Aglain’s face was gentle, his words knowing and wise, as it became clear that Uther Pendragon didn’t deserve his rage.

“You shouldn’t be scared of Uther. You should pity him.”

“Pity? Why?”

“Because he’s a broken man, consumed by fear. His hatred of magic has driven goodness from his heart.”

“I’ve always been taught that magic is evil, that it corrupts your soul.”

“Uther told you this. Just because he decrees it, doesn’t make it so. In time you will learn that magic isn’t a dark art that must be shrouded in secrecy. It can be a force for good.”

But Aglain was dead, just like many others now and Arthur, who was brave, and kind and strong stood in her mind like he had in her chambers before. Covered in the blood of innocent people. She drifted away. No explanation, no fights, she simply slipped into the mask that was Lady Morgana of the court, and let her smiles become brittle, her manners becoming her armor and her cage.

The day was red, and even at night she could feel the hands of the Witchfinder closing around.

“I’m all right, Arthur, I promise. Need I remind you that wasn’t my first time under the threat of a blade?”

Standing in the middle of her chambers, Arthur looked everything but pleased. He approached her slowly, looking over her shoulder towards the plaza.

“Gaius almost burned because of that man. If Gwen hadn’t spoken to me, I’m not sure I would’ve...”

He balked instead of uttering the next words and Morgana lowered her head in shame. Had she truly been so afraid of the Witchfinder that she had lost sight of what was happening? In the back of her mind, she had known that Gaius was in danger, that the old man was probably going to burn, but the young girl who spoke out against injustice seemed caged inside her. Why wasn’t she the one urging Arthur to do the right thing? Why wasn’t she roaring against Uther? What was happening to her?

Her father told her of knights, brave and noble and good. Camelot had knights, subservient, strong and who didn’t seem to mind burning an old man. Perhaps the girls she was, might have been a lie as well. Perhaps she was a coward.

Her silence must have been disturbing, because after a long while of just standing there, Arthur finally took his leave, and when he left, a lonely desperate sob escaped her lips, the mourning of losing oneself and everything else.

Gwen would still be there, until she wasn’t. She would hold her in the night until she didn’t. She was once Gwen’s closest companion and before she noticed Arthur had taken her place. Watching it happening felt like a bad joke. The two people who barely knew each other’s sight, leaving her for one another, and then, she was gasping, the poison was offered and accepted.

The day was green, and she refused to listen.

“We could speak to Arthur, he surely will know what to do.” She walked away from her sister’s home, a dark menacing tower that rose over a swamp. A safe place, Morgause promised, but her steps hurried away and the tears were still on the edge of her will.

“Arthur already knows the truth, sister! I showed it to him, his mother’s own shade took form to tell her tale and yet Uther is still alive, and yet he remains silent to our people’s plight!”

“It can’t be true, Arthur wouldn’t stand by if...”

“He would, he did.” She fell down, feeling the grass with her hands as Morgause knelt by her side. “Arthur Pendragon is an empty promise, sister.”

She cried herself to sleep, and her lessons begun. She learned of the Old Religion, its secrets and its power. She learned to respect it, and to harness it to her will and each day she felt a little stronger, and each night, the sleep came easier.

  
The day was white, the air cold as it entered her lungs.

Morgause stabbed the knight without a second thought, her magic was fearsome that day, punishing the villagers for their ignorance. Debris flew and people were hurled away, dead or dying it didn’t matter. Morgana wanted to stop her, but she was too busy, she cared only for the man she pulled away from the pyre. It was too late of course, his eyes were blind to her presence and her magic was weak, so he died in her arms long before her sister had made the villagers retreat. It was only later, as Morgause healed her hands, that she would remember how half of his body was already burned.

She met stories like that again and again in those months. Tales of horrid detail and heartbreaking similarity, until Morgause came to her with a plan, a plan to bring an end to the suffering and the pain.

 _We’ve known each other a long time, you trust me don’t you?_ Gaius said, comforting like family.

 _You’ve been a blessing to me, Morgana. You’re the daughter I never had_. Uther said, his gloved hand brushing her cheek.

_You can trust me… You can trust me… You can trust me._

Saying yes never felt so easy.

The day was heavy with distant wishes.

  
The four traveled together to the Castle of Fyeren. Once more their small band was united in purpose, to rescue Gwen’s brother from the clutches of evil man, but the evil man had worked for her and what was once a unity was nothing but a jumble of broken pieces.

The day was hers, and victory as well.

She stood above Uther, rejoicing in the way his face fell, drinking his pain like it was the sweetest wine. There, on her feet was the man responsible for so much pain, there on her feet was evil, truly defeated. Now she only needed to make the people see reason, she needed them to obey, then, everything would be fine.

The day was lost.

She raced into the chambers to cradle her fallen sister, accessing such a power as she had never dared to before. Her rage brought down a part of Camelot that day, and later, her grief would try to end the job.

The day was...

Her sister was gone, another plan had failed and she was the Mad Witch. Scourge of the land, enemy of the kingdom. Memories that were hazy now were so clear, a fog lifted as she felt the empty soul that she had become. She felt Uther’s demise, and sought to bury herself further into the small bed. She felt cold, and barely mustered enough will to walk outside and find some kindling. She breathed, in and out, alone.

The day was...

Death seemed sweet, almost serene, peaceful in a way. Clutching her stomach, without her magic, with the woods silent around her, she embrace it. Perhaps in the other world her attempts wouldn’t blow in her face like some sort of divine punishment, perhaps she would see her sister again and everything would be all right. Yet a miracle saved her. Aithusa, her love, she breathed her new life, she came to her with the nightmare of the living grave, and she was by her side until Emrys sent her away.

The day...

She was the Mad Witch, enemy of Camelot, the villain of the songs while they were praised and raised above the realm of mortals. King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, with their love so pure and eternal. Merlin, the loyal servant, that also Emrys the great and powerful and finally, even Mordred stood against her.

“I am not strong enough to defeat you, Morgana, but know this. Such hatred as yours can never triumph. I hope one day you will find the love and compassion which used to fill your heart.“

She hesitated, and felt his magic pushing her away, down into the pity of her soul, down into defeat, down into darkness, with the blade of Excalibur burning through her guts.

“You’ve brought peace at last.”

“Morgana?”

Blinking, she felt her vision clearing, the thoughts and memories moving back into the depths of her mind as she looked up to her sister. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I asked you, why a white dragon?” Morgause asked, holding the piece of clothing for inspection.

She had made the surcoat on a whim, after watching the few trained warriors outside wearing their colors with pride. The blood guard itself all had their rowan trees displayed and, in her turn, she wanted some of that feeling. With magic, it had been simple to cut the fabric and stitch it together. Camelot’s dragon lowered its head as if in submission, but her Aithusa was rising, head high and proud.

“She was my friend, she was with me when no one else was.” Morgana explained, running her fingers over the mail. “I thought it would be appropriate to have her with me now, in a way.”

She was glad when her sister didn’t press for more information, for at this point she had no idea where Aithusa might be, or how to find her. It was just another loss, a shallow corner that she didn’t want to see.

"Yesterday they were all worried that weren't in the meeting."

"I was walking the camp, raising moral."

"That is good." Morgause bit her lip. “I would ask if you had any predictions about today, but...”

“None at all”

Her sister sighed and their finger intertwined, the hold of their hands a confirmation of a growing bond. “In that case, I’ll see you in the battle.”

Unable to speak, Morgana nodded, feeling the touch disappearing. Finally she was alone. She got ready by herself, slowly bringing her wild curls into a braid that allowed it to fall along her back. When that was done, she proceed to dress for battle. She drew the padded pants over her legs, and then a shirt, that was then covered by a tunic of boiled leather. Then came the armor properly, a chain mail, made by the finest craftsmen Camelot could pay. It had been made for a birthday of hers, steel meant to indulge and tame not to be used properly.

As the mail fell over her body, she looked over the greatbelt, a huge circle of steel that was meant to encircled her guts, uncomfortable and limiting. Clearly the man who build this had wanted her to seem womanly. Chuckling, she drew a simple leather belt around her waist, it would keep the mail from moving. Next came the vambrace, the solid steel curling perfect around her forearm. It was another fine piece, where the steel was thin inside her arm and thicker on the outside so it could take the blow of a sword and even deflect a warhammer. It bared the dragon of Camelot still, but she cared nothing for it.

Boots and greaves followed to protect her legs, and soon she was pulling the surcoat over her head, feeling strong like she hadn’t in years.

Outside, her black mare was waiting, groomed and saddled by her own hands. The palfrey was not exactly a proper mount for war, but the horse had been with her since Agravaine’s state, and she ha grown fond of the animal.

“Maybe I should name you.” She said, but the horse failed to answer.

She rode until she was standing in front of the army, ready to march into the battle of their lives. She stood beside Morgause and Ruadan while the lords of Essetir stood behind her, all dressed in their finest armor and jewels.

“Arthur always had words to inspire his men into battle.” She pointed out to Morgause as the winds whispered in he ears.

“Suit yourself.”

Smirking, Morgana brought her pale mare atop of a hill, and whispered a spell so she could be heard.

“Men of Essetir, sorcerers from Albion! You have all come a long way. Some of you came because you’re afraid, some came for your own ambitions, what you don’t realized now, is that none of that matters when you stand in battle with your siblings at arms.” She roared, as loud as she could, her veins pumping with fresh blood and anticipation. “For years these lands, the whole of Albion was haunted by the whims of evil men! Stained by prejudice and the blood of innocents! The death of those who can’t pay and those who go hungry! Now, you’re here on the edge of change! Here, about to enter a battle not only for your future, but the future of all! This is the time when you say, no more! Your chance!”

She paused, breathing in and out, she wasn’t afraid. Sometimes, you have to do what is right.

“I decided I wouldn’t be idle before the suffering of others! I stand here! Will you stand with me?”

Behind her, the nobles were suddenly uneasy. Ahead, they answered her, one after the other, until they were, in themselves, a storm.

The day was cold, covered in snow, a fight day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Haven't mentioned this before, but I always considered Uther an unrelyable narrator when it comes to Morgana's paternity, I'm not sure if I'm going to offer a complete answer though. About the chapter properly I wanted it to be a jumble of scenes with some thoughts as Morgana watched her life, so I avoided making it too organized. Not sure if it worked. Again, criticism is apreciated. Please review XD


	15. These Souls Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, big chapter.

Forridel actually felt a small amount of surprise when she noticed that the man running at her was actually, reasonably handsome. He was obviously tall, bare arms pulsing under the strain of raising his ax, intent on cutting her in half, and although she wasn't above stopping to admire a beautiful person from time to time, it wouldn't stop her from moving. Numbly, she stepped aside, bringing her own sword upwards, slicing through the scarlet crest on his surcoat and his flesh.

 

She did not wait to see if he was dead. Around her the battle raged with the roars, screams and shouts of magical words, and she had to keep moving in order to survive. Ahead, she saw a sorcerer reaching out, his hand shoving two armored riders off their horses, but he had not seen the warrior sneaking up on him. Running forward, she jumped over a corpse full of bolts, whose blood seeped into the snow, crying out before slamming her shoulder against the warrior. He fell hard on the ground, and Forridel lifted her blade, putting her weight behind the steel and it pierced through the mail.

 

On her side, the sorcerer looked on, wide eyed. Riderless horses were running wild around them, and everywhere she looked, Forridel saw the forest peppered with blood and the dead. Lot’s men were slowly being cut down by unexpected resistance, dragged from their saddles and killed. The sorcerer she had helped blinked, his mouth opened and, for a moment Forridel expected to hear words of gratitude, but what dropped from his mouth was blood. It took her a moment to notice the arrow head coming out of his chest and then the man was falling, revealing a bowman in her line of vision, hiding behind a tree.

 

There was no time to think, no time to grieve, no time for anything but to run before he took out more of their fighters. People would die, but not because of her, never again would she be the cause of someone’s demise, not like before. As she stepped through the thick woods, around the leafless trees and over crunching snow, Forridel gripped her sword even more tightly, forcing herself through the needles in her throat as winter breathed down her lungs.

 

Camelot was so far behind her now, but still she would catch herself remembering a life there. Growing up, she had been just like every other child, entertained by tales of monsters who violated the will of god and nature with their sorcery, so it stood to reason that her first impression of a sorcerer had been underwhelming, but it was still a surprise how easy it was to love one. Eventually, she met home, and the druids, so many, and they always needed help. She offered it, freely and from the heart, discreetly building a life in Camelot itself, and secretly smuggling supplies, information and other small things that the woods failed to provide. It was a good life, a simple life and occasionally her love would come by, or they would met in secret under the shadows of the Darkling Woods. Everything changed when the king’s ward was attacked though, the same ward that now led this makeshift army. From day to night, people had been rounded up by the red cloaks. Whether they had only whispered the word magic didn’t matter, they were thrown into the dungeons and later executed and she probably would’ve been one of them if it wasn’t for the boy.

 

He had invaded her home, all hurry and desperation, pleading for her to go. He had saved her life. To this day, Forridel had no idea what had compelled her to reveal the location of the druids. At the time the price seemed so small, her life for a secret, but now there wasn’t a day where she didn’t regret her actions.

 

When she doubled back from her escape and came upon the camp, it was only find ragged survivors, widows and orphans collecting their dead from the passage of Camelot's forces. When she came upon her friends, she did so with the striking horror that the only explanation was her fault. How else could Camelot have found the secret hiding?

 

And here she was now, battling, and every time she killed in battle, she imagined it was a red cloak falling at her feet, and as she run towards the bowman, it was unending fury that moved her legs. She was getting closer now, and the man had not seen her, he was pulling his arrow at a target to her left, and she leaned forward, ready to throw her shoulders behind and slice him down.

 

Then pain flared up, filling her vision with stars.

 

The cold ground met her back, hard, and bleary, she could see a shape standing over her, putting his shield aside. His sword was raised over his feathered helmet, each one so colorful they blurred together like a sun of many colors. On the ground, she could still hear the noise, feel a thunderous cavalry charge that would probably end these men shortly, but probably not soon enough to save her. Tasting the blood in her mouth, she grunted, her body seeming like a disobedient child, refusing to move. _Fuck..._ she cursed, wondering if she should apologize. _Fuck..._

 

The sword came down, and in a whisper, it disappeared behind a scarlet blur. The miracles took sometime to become clear, and then the soldier’s scream pierced her confusion making her cringe, until a dagger cut through his throat. When he tumbled aside, there was a hand reaching for her, and Forridel could only blink dumbly at the druid mark the covered her right eye and half of her face.

 

“I thought you said you would be the one taking care of me.”

 

“Pylah” She mumbled, reaching out to those chestnut eyes.

 

“That is my name all right” her love smiled, pulling her to her feet. Over her shoulder, the bowman was already dead, beheaded by a blond woman with hair like a bird’s nest. “You should be more careful in the future, unless you don’t mind me saving your butt.”

 

Forridel smiled. “Is not like you don’t enjoy it.”

 

“Oh Goddess” Pylah said. “I think you lost a tooth there.”

 

A tooth, it was far less that she had made the druids lose that day, that she made Pylah lose that day. As the battle around them ended and the last of Lot’s men were sent to the other world, Forridel considered that a tooth was nothing.

 

Looking down, Pylah picked something from the corpse, a silver chain that usually indicated a high position in a chain of command, Alvarr had warned them to look for it. “Think his head will do?”

 

Forridel shrugged, catching a glimpse of their leader riding through the forest, his sword bloodied as he asked for volunteers. “You should ask him right now.”

 

* * *

 

Lot, or King Lot as his servant announced, wasn’t quite what Ruadan expected. Under the fame of a brutal, fearsome warrior was a man, thin and tanned, seeming small under a heavy bearskin cloak that hid the bloody crown he had chosen to be his sigil. Facing him, Morgana Pendragon looked much more regal, poised atop of her mare in shining coat of mail, her white dragon making the snow flakes disappear in its lack of color.

 

“You’re a very bold whore, to stand and face me, my lady, for that you have my respect.” Lot said, snickers following his words all around his lords and commanders. Morgana remained still, stretching the silence around them like a blanket of winter's sun. Under him, Ruadan felt his horse fidgeting and slowly reached out, his touch calming the old gray palfrey as much as it reassured himself.

 

“You have a funny way of showing respect.” The High Priestess, Morgause, called out, and now the man’s face held a grin that never reached his eyes.

 

“Isn’t the truth a form of respect?” The man questioned, and then, suddenly, his grin vanished. One of his men, a tall figure wearing feather on his helmet, handed him a bag, and he threw the contents at their feet. The woman had been young, her chestnut eyes were wide open and her whole face seemed carved in shock as if she was surprised to have her head cut off. It was however the druid mark that covered half of her face that spoke loudest to the those watching. “Your forces in the forest are gone, all dead. I’m however prone to mercy on this day, so you may lay down your weapons and surrender your army to me, and I promise you shall have a quick death.”

 

From where he was standing, Ruadan couldn’t help but wonder if he should say something, if he had an actual role in this whole situation. Disturbed by the sight of the head, his let his eyes roam over the land, to where Lot’s army was. His men had taken formation across the road, where the land dipped slightly until it became flat. To the south, away from the horses, the forest of Essetir stood mighty and dark, bare bark and leafless branches were drowned in their own bleakness, a proper place for an ambush, even obvious, and he wondered how many of their people were now dead in those woods. He wondered what he might if that was Sefa's head on the ground, and it made easier to let that feeling show.

 

He had been in his prime when the waves of the purge first crashed onto his life, a druid that loved his people’s ways, and to keep the balance of the Goddess. Back then he offered mercy as easily as he drew breath, until Sefa came along, and caring for her finally demanded of him to raise his blade, to, for the first time, consider using his magic to do harm. It was that or seeing her thrown into a well, still a baby, to drown and perish with the magic in her blood. Of course, later, Sefa never showed signs of the gift, and in days when he visited her in villages where people were common, and whose bigger problem was the gossip of their neighbors, where she could have her own life in secret, he was actually relieved that the Goddess had denied her such powers.

 

Now, as Morgana, a Pendragon of all people, spat in Lot’s direction, those feelings of relief brought him nothing but shame, and a small bit of hope that even if this small chance, this battle, found him dead and Morgana’s promises ashes in the wind, at least Sefa would be safe and alive. This, after all, was his gamble to make, no matter how much she had bared it by herself unnecessarily.

 

As Ruadan pulled his horse back, he fell in line with Morgana, the young woman seeming calm in a way that disturbed him at times. Either she was made of ice or her life had taught her to hide her feelings well, which, imagining her childhood, a sorceress that was ward to Uther Pendragon, was very likely.

 

“He just told us he destroyed our men in the woods” Lord Trito pointed out nervously. “All our horses, isn’t that bad?”

 

Morgana hummed, before looking at him. “What do you think, Ruadan?”

 

Her question was simple, and he felt the eyes of the nobles of Essetir and the High Priestess turning on him in almost comedic sync. Thinking quietly, he let his mind draw the battle lines, the numbers and the plan that he was presented with. He didn’t know why he deserved so much confidence in commanding the battle. He had disagreed with her from the beginning, trying to argue the merits of fighting Uther instead of some rabid dog warlord, but if fate, if his Goddess, had brought him here, he would see it through.

 

“He is overconfident, that is for sure." Ruadan pointed out. "He will bring the cavalry first, keep a reserve of his men, no doubt, our victory will depend on timing our actions. If we can break them, they will run.”

 

“And can we? Break them?” The redhaired lady asked.

 

He looked down the road, to the small hill where their army was positioned, all but waiting for the slaughter. They were three small blocks. The vanguard, on the left, was where their best fighters were. The center, was nothing but a big mass of farmers and peasants, badly equipped, barely trained. The sorcerers, most of them, formed the smallest of the formations, on the right wing, holding banners with runes and sigils of the Old Religion. They looked small, but the power they could all summon together, that was something else.

 

“Yes, my lady, I believe we can break them.”

 

* * *

 

Standing three lines deep in the formation, Gilli could only gulp as he watched the massive body of men that was slowly marching down to meet him and the people around him, with the horses slowly gathering ahead of the enemy army. Under his boots, he could almost feel the ground shaking or maybe it was just his imagination. He hoped for the later.

 

Around him, the fear was palatable all over. He could smell it in the liquid guts of fighters who run away and lowered their pants, and the sweat that poured from many a forehead, despite the freezing cold of the day. His own belly had rumbled nervously all morning, ten times worst than it ever did when he fought one on one in a tournament. The Decennial Tournament of Camelot had no rules, and yet, back then, magic had been his shield, his blanket that hid his frail body from the monsters at night. Now, it slowly dawned on him that he was in a war, that magic might not assure his survival and that, a decision made on the road might have been a little rushed on his part.

 

Closing his eyes, he suddenly, very keenly, wished he had gone back home like he intended, to his mother’s arms and the safety of a small lakeside village that no one cared about. The thought that he might never see her again suddenly made him want to cry, the pressure growing behind his eyes until a new voice broke his chain of thoughts.

 

“First fight, lad?”

 

Gilli blinked, unsure if the question was for him, but when he turned to the side, he met a bearded old man, using a battered leather armor and a rusty sword. The grin of only three teeth was indeed meant for him. “E-excuse me?”

 

“This your first fight?”

 

“Yes”

 

“I could tell, shaking like a maiden, green as grass, you look like a proper wee loon.” The man chuckled, and Gilli blinked at the thick accent. “I can still remember my first fight, some dobber somewhere wanted m’lord’s bridge, old Lord Belmont not the sleekit one from now, anyway we had to go and defend the darn bridge. Sorry excuse I was, ended up whiteying in the middle of the fight.”

 

“I-I’m sorry...”

 

“What for, did you make me do it? They said a drink gives you courage, and I bought it, hook and line.” The grin was back again, and on the field, Gilli could now see the horses breathes as smoke. “You’re a magic one, aren’t you? They put some of you around here to protect us, right? I know, I saw some of you around already, seems damn useful all right”

 

Gilli wanted to say yes, but that he didn’t really know that many spells, he just prayed his father’s ring would give him enough strength to protect the lines in front of him. When a horn suddenly sung all over the field, enticing the cavalry to a full charge, Gilly couldn’t look at the man anymore, suddenly, he had eyes only for the hammer of steel was was descending upon them, really, the horses alone seemed like they could kill all of them.

 

“So, I hear you guys actually heard a voice talking in your head, how is that?”

 

“It was a call.” Gilli mumbled, an image of Merlin flashing in his mind, making him feel ashamed for trying to kill Uther. He was vain, Merlin said, but Gilli didn’t want to be vain, he wanted for no one to die like his father, cowering on the floor and denying himself salvation. “It was a call for us to fight for our freedom.”

 

“Aye, heard a lot of calls like that in my life, not many worked out, not many are truth.” He winked at Gilli, as if making a private joke. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m here just for the pillaging.”

 

“W-what?” Gilli didn’t understand. “Why aren’t you with Lot, then?”

 

The man seemed to think about it for a while and Gilli wondered if he would even get an answer before they were both trampled by the cavalry.

 

“There used to be a witch in my village, long ago, an old crone. She had this cat, you see, mean furball that he was, always scratching me, always coming after my own kitty, a sleekit beast he was. So one day, I caught the little bastard, tied a torch to his tail, funny as hell.” The man frowned. “Of course, the woman didn’t like that, she used her magic yes? Put a curse on me, for a week, I couldn’t stop throwing up frogs. She said she stopped it after that week, but I swear I spit tadpoles sometimes.”

 

He huffed, spat on the ground, and shouldered his sword and shield. “My point is, I’m old, don’t care for much and those horses are probably gonna kill us, but since I saw magic before, I know there is a chance they won’t.”

 

As if on a cue Gilli felt a spark in the air, power, resonating and increasing with an ominous chant coming from the right. Voices of sorcerers were joining together, saying words that were new to him and whose meaning he understood instinctively. It stole his breath, to feel it, so much magic, an ocean that he had only ever touched the surface of. Around his finger, the ring pulsed as if eager to join the fray, but Gilli couldn’t, not yet. Ahead of their formation, at first the air seemed to tremble, and then, it happened. The snow that covered the field in front of them melted, disappearing before their eyes and infiltrating the soil until it was nothing but a dark, unstable dough. By the time the cavalry reach it, the horses' hooves sunk through the dead grass, deep in the mud, and tripped.

 

Suddenly, the power that had come to crush them, crushed itself. He saw a man being flung from his horse when his mount got stuck, falling with a splash and not getting up. All over the enemy line, the same story happened, the mounts either were swallowed by the magic made mud pool, broke their legs or were run over by those coming from behind. Screams spread all over the field in a cacophony of pain from men and animal alike, and Gilli couldn’t help but remember his own brush with death, when he had first killed a man in combat, not because he wanted, but because he was scared and angry. That first time had plagued him with nightmares for days, and now the sight before him, somehow promised him even worst.

 

“Huh! There you go! Take that you bastards!” A man was suddenly screaming in the head of their formation, Gilli couldn’t hear it, but they were moving and so he moved along, the man by his side seeming uncomfortably happy with the whole ordeal. “You seen a little green there lad, don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. Always like you, magic folk.”

 

* * *

 

_“You go, and please, report to me what you see.”_

 

Her master had asked her, because, although he had long sought distance from the world, Alator was still a curious man. For Finna, it wasn’t anything beyond her abilities, it was a simple task of observation, a study of the ripples of the world, until the day came when her fate would finally put her in a place to serve Emrys.

 

It was her destiny after all, prophesied, and she was proud of it, because what greater purpose could there be than to assist the one who would bring about the New World? A time where the old and new were joined, and magic would roam free once more. That was her dream, to see to it that her purpose remained alive, so it was fare to say that she looked upon the battle before her with suspicion.

 

Looking down, the brendui concentrated, enchanting the poultice and passing it over the young man at her side. He was but a lad, probably taken away from his village with all other fighting men, but he was steady as he gripped the poultice and threw it over the crashing lines. It exploded amidst the enemy, in a cloud of pale like mist where she should see the shadows falling down as they breathed the smoke. Around her, her sisters did the same, women she had never met, or faces that had long been forgotten in the fog of memory and persecution, and soon the enemy lines were all falling, the knock out mix enhanced by their powers, turning a fearsome warrior into a sleeping puppy.

 

Alator asked her to watch, and so she did. She took notice of sorcerers spilling words to protect warriors, warriors fighting to keep the sorcerers safe, as the battle became a mess of muddy grounds and blurred lines. She watched the High Priestess joining the fray shortly, her blade carving whole lines of men, her magic as sharp as her steel. Then followed her sister, the Lady Morgana, dropping the reins of her mount to bring about a storm of wind and ice, the arrival of her power turning the tide on a nice where the enemy was threatening to win. Soon, the spell changed, and storm clouds gathered above them, so quick, they might as well have appeared from nowhere.  Finna knew, deep down, that this whole battle wouldn’t bare fruits, for destiny was written already, and without Emrys, what hope could this crusade really have? She would watch, she would wait, and in time she would hide again, waiting for her day to come to meet the savior, and yet, when Finna looked behind her, to where her sisters had build and raised a flag, baring the same sigil they all shared, she couldn’t help but wish that fate, for once, was just a little bit wrong.

 

"Crossbows!"  At the shout, she turned her eyes to the sky, where hundreds of black streaks were cruising through the sky. "Get ready! Everyone get ready!"

 

The man rode his horse, gray haired, he roared with a voice like thunder, stretching his hand to the skies. Around Finna, other men and women followed suit, the echo of one word was spoke in dozens of voices.

 

**“Scildan!"**

 

* * *

 

Enmyria stretched her back and fingers, yawning under the gray clouds that now covered the skies. The battle had raged for almost a full day, and it seemed that the little girl’s army was still holding strong, who would’ve thought?

 

By her side, Alvarr was also watching, leaning over a dark courier whose rider was now dead on the snows, him and scores of Lot’s men that had been sent to take the woods. They failed miserably of course, and now, they were only waiting for their cue.

 

“It’s quite impressive, don’t you think?”

 

Yes, it was impressive watching some four thousand men holding about four times their number in flat ground, all because of magic and some mud. “Not really.”

 

“I think it is. Who would’ve thought that innocent frightened girl could bring about something like this?” Just as he said that, bolts of lightening exploded all over the right wing of Lot’s army, sending his men scurrying away. They didn’t run though, soon they were stopping and soon enough they would attack again. Crossbows were fired, and he watched them stopping in midair, bouncing off an invisible barrier, although some bolts fell anyway, striking at Morgana’s army. “She took a fallen kingdom, brought together a few lost souls, and now she is resisting one of the most frightening warriors Albion has ever seen.”

 

It was with annoyance that she realized he wasn’t talking about the battle. “You wanna marry the girl now?”

 

“Are you jealous, my love?”

 

“Of you? Not at all, it’s just sad to see you so envious.” That took the smirk out of his face. Good. “Oh, don’t kid yourself, this is all you ever wanted, right, my dear? Except, if it was on you, those soldiers would all be wearing red cloaks and golden dragons.”

 

Alvarr grumbled something under his breath, and Enmyria chuckled to herself. She was well aware that Alvarr's little game of seduction had somewhat failed. Morgana had been a simple means to and end back then, and yet now, Alvarr was the one in debt. How ironic.

 

From the hill where Lot was watching the battle, she saw two riders pulling away, and getting bigger as they raced to meet them. “That looks like our cue.”

 

“Patience.”

 

The riders slowly became men, and the men pulled up in front of them. As soon as they did, the feathered helmet disappeared, with the bears and the harsh features to show a dark haired woman. The other rider did the same, revealing the curly hair and the druid mark over her right eye. “He wants his men to double back from the forest and attack the sorcerer’s on Morgana’s right.”

 

“A wise strategy.” Alvarr claimed to which the woman rolled her eyes. Her name was Mauren, Enmyaria remembered, leader of the remains of Tauren's band, and his sister. A small legend on her own right.

 

“Did the head fool him?”

 

“It fooled him well enough, Pylah’s spell was masterful.” Mauren motioned to her companion who was already moving to stand beside another woman, their whispers impossible to hear. “So, lets get this over with?”

 

Alvarr looked at her over his shoulder. Lot’s reserves were closing in on the fight now, they had their shields up, spears locked and they were ready for the mud. The sorcerers were too busy keeping the fight in their favor, so now, it was up to them to strike the final blow. Eager, Enmyria drew her blade, Mauren shouldered a spear and Alvarr looked at his own sword.

 

“ **Bregdan anweald gafeluc”** The renegade said, enchanting the weapon into a eerie blue glow.

 

Behind her, in the shadows of the Forest of Essetir, that Pylah woman turned her blond companion’s blade orange, while other sorcerers did their own enchantments, but Enmyria had no wish to waste her magic with that.

 

“Forward!” Mauren cried out, and like one, their small force broke out of the tree line, aiming at the flank of an unsuspecting enemy.

 

* * *

 

She bit down on her lower lip, her fingers working with the ease and experience of a lifetime, while she drowned out the screams the whimpers of pain around her. They weren’t from her patient though, he was passed when he was brought in. It was better that way. Brushing the sweat away from her face, she mumbled the spell, watching as the flesh of his guts slowly repaired itself. A second spell removed the filthy from inside his body, and finally, she moved to complete the task, dousing a needle in boiling wine and starting to close the wound, only starting.

 

“Come here” She spoke. The young druid knew very basic things about healing, but he was a fast leaner, she found. His name was Oldric, sweet of nature and steady of hand. “Sew him up, very tight, then use this green paste over here, to prevent infection, he will be good as new.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Patting the lad’s shoulder, Alice moved further into the line of wounded. The battle had ended a while ago, with screams of victory and mad joy, but, slowly, the consequences needed to be dealt with as well, and those who got hurt were of the most importance. She moved slowly, past young healers who could deal with bolts and arrows, towards the most serious cases, finding a druid woman whose leg was split in two, the bone protruding out of the wound.

 

The poor lass that was with her was mumbling spells nonstop, while another healer ranted about amputation. Both were clearly desperate and it didn’t help that the woman was crying, screaming in pain until she was hoarse.

 

In second, Alice was there, brushing both away. “No need for any of that, now pay attention, because I won’t have time to properly teach any of this.” With cold measurements, she quickly understood the situation and begun her work. The first spell was a whisper, making the woman drop like a string less puppet on the table. The second was the worse, it left her lightheaded, because it forcefully poured magic into the bone, forcing it back in place. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Alice, touched the leg, understanding the torn muscles and damaged veins. It was a wonder the woman hadn’t bled to death yet, but she would very soon. There was no time to properly identify the damaged veins, so this needed an more encompassing work. The next spell took care of that, it made the blood thick and allowed it to coagulate.

 

“She will be fine, but someone needs to keep an eye on her. Close the wound, full poultice, and give her plenty of food.” She instructed the two, and looked straighted at the druid lass. “You understood the spells?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good, they are only for emergencies, the first one alone might drain you, so be sure to have someone with you.”

 

The girl nodded, and Alice moved along. She lost count of how many she saved in her passage, how many orders she barked with her old lungs, until her throat itself was hurting and she became the unnamed leader of the healer ward. A ward that was only a large tent with sheets, and furs making for improvised beds. It was dire, it was difficult, and it brought fourth things she thought she had forgotten, knowledge that had no place in this world, a relic, just like she feared herself to be. The old healer had, after all, been about to enter a boat, ready to leave Albion behind altogether, turning Gaius into just another memory.

 

She still wasn't sure what made her come here. Alice had never liked High Priestesses, preaching their views of life like tired old flutes, neither was she a great friend of druids, whose minds were as closed as a treasure chest. Her life had always been one of exploration, of diving into the mysteries of dark magic and the unknown. She didn't want to use the same old healing poultice as everyone, she wanted to try and make it better, until it was closing cuts twice as fast. As she came upon a man whose arm got mangled by a falling horse, Alice couldn't find in herself a selfish answer to attending the call, but she didn't regret it. Maybe, saying her next words, were reason enough.

 

"Calm down now, son, everything will be all right."

 

In the back of her mind, she heard a sudden commotion from the rest of the camp. Shouts of ‘Victory!’ and ‘for Essetir’ ‘for the Goddess’ reached her with force, and then, her name, like a prayer, repeated over the others: ‘Morgana! Morgana! Morgana!’

 

“She was so powerful.” Spoke the man under her care. Alice gently whispered the words to separate his hand from the elbow. The damage was too great to be fixed, magic or not, and if she even attempted to do it, Alice feared she might lose others as a result, her own powers were almost on the brink. “S-she brought lightning from the sky, w-when they tried t-to strike back. She used lightning. I-it was...”

 

“Don’t talk” Alice spoke, uttering one last spell that made his eyes close in deep slumber. Sighing, she looked down at her bloodied hands, told again for the healer to finish sewing and dressing and moved on, barely taken a step when her companions gasped in surprise.

 

“I was told there were people in need here.” Alice blinked, startled to find the same Morgana from the ovation standing behind her.

 

For a moment she was beyond words as she took in the sight of the young woman. She was cackled in blood and filthy, from head to toe, the white dragon on her chest completely disappearing under the mud, making her image a far cry from her glorious appearance to speak before the battle. Back then she was like a powerful Priestess, now she looked like an exhausted girl. As that downed on Alice and the woman’s words, she quietly looked around her.

 

“Everyone needs help, my lady, and our healers are almost drained of power, bandages are gone as well.”

 

“Show me those who are worst.”

 

Frowning, Alice turned around doing as she was told. Slowly, she brought Morgana to the worst cases, to those who would inevitably lose legs or arms, those with infections already taking place and those whose loss of blood would make getting through the night a whole fight. She thought she would need to give some advice, but other than asking for a spell to purge infection, Morgana simply worked. She moved from one to the other, her bracelet vibrating with magic whenever she mumbled a spell. Sometimes, they would cry, grasp at her hands and thanking nonstop, other she would be the one offering assurance.

 

By the time they were done, Alice took the woman by the hands, guiding her to a table with dark bread and tea. Her own hands shaking, Alice quietly served the exhausted young woman, before taking a small bite of food. Her stomach demanding more almost right away.

 

“You probably saved many of them.” She pointed out. “Soon enough, there would be healers passing out from the strain.”

 

“I understand how healing spells can be taxing.”

 

“Summoning lightning can be taxing as well.” Morgana’s answer was a weary smile, taking small bite from the dark dough. “I assume it was victory then.”

 

“Lot escaped.” Was all that she said, but Alice didn’t prod.

 

Both woman sipped quietly from the tea, in a strange companionship, while Alice stood her companion. She was indeed young, and although the call hadn't come from her, she was, in fact, the commanding force of this whole situation. Uncertainty, suddenly tangled her thoughts as the old healer remembered the rumors about Camelot, of treason and war, she wondered about motives and decided on her next words.

 

"Just like someone to blame for their troubles, many also need someone to lean on, to place upon their hopes and dreams and from whom to take promises and assurances. Few could really take both cases upon themselves, when those situations arrive." Alice bit at her bread, chewing thoughtfully. "That is how you know a real leader from a fake one."

 

In front of her, Morgana frowned, lowering the food down, not really looking at her. "You know Gaius, don't you?"

 

“I knew him from childhood, we used to study magic together, specially the arts of healing.” Alice sought something from those green glassy eyes but all the woman did was eat another bite. “Do you know him?”

 

“I hate him.”

 

Alice shivered at how flat those words sounded, an affirmation of the same nature of pointing out the coming rain. Such a contradiction, not like the kindness she saw not a moment ago, there was not even hatred in her affirmation. Suddenly, she rose to her feet, blinking away towards the exit. Outside, snow begun to fall, but it didn't look like a storm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Alice blinked. “For what?”

 

“For coming here, and for doing this, thank you.” Alice couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so she didn’t. “Could you organize the wounded for travel? My sister is pursuing the remains of Lot’s army. As soon as she returns we’ll be moving to Cenred’s castle. I believe they will be safer there.”

 

Alice considered the request, the echoes of sorcerers and common folk all shouting her name repeating themselves again, while a wounded man told in wonder about her power hitting Lot’s army. The care in which her healing spells spread over her patients and her words for the man she loved. All her life, Alice had sought to understand the world, to break through ignorance and use the full potential of her gifts. She would never have thought she would see sorcerers working openly again, it didn’t matter that it was for war. She wasn't selfish with her work, but Alice suddenly saw a selfish reason to be here. Her answer seemed almost easy when she offered. “Of course, my lady.”

 

Morgana Pendragon stopped short, an mutual understanding passing through the two of them before she finally moved away. Whenever she passed, heads were lowered in respect, compliments were paid, even by those men who belonged to other nobles.

 

Something interesting was happening in Essetir, and, like a young teenager reading of the mysteries of dark magic, manticore’s poison and the cunning minds of dragons, Alice couldn’t help but want to see it through.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I wasn't really going to show any battle in Essetir, but as I started writing what now is the next chapter, I realise it was a good oportunity to expose about other background characters from Merlin, that I always thought deserved more space. Hopefully, it was good, please review. XD


	16. Triumph?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter, this one with a very important plot point. Thanks to all the reviews, and kudos, hopefully, I'll be writing a little faster now that I have mapped out a good chunk of the story. Please enjoy. XD

Below her, the castle was brimming with the light of torches and the singing, the voices of victorious men and women joined together in a night of drunk celebration, with food and wine taken from Cenred’s storages to cheer her weary army.

Brushing some snow away from the windowsill, Morgana leaned forward, listening to the rhythm and the faint words impossible to hear. So far, the feast had been a cacophony of old ballads and druid songs, but the music she heard right then was familiar. The verses were long and stretched out, the melody abandoned to the joining of voices, to whispers about a toothless dragon and its drunk one legged friend.

“Priestess of the old religion and drunken soldiers singing tavern songs together, now that is impressive.” 

Huffing, Morgana looked over her shoulder to offer her sister a smug smile. “There are very few things that a shared drink can’t mend.”

“How long until they start fighting though?”

“I told Accolon and the Blood Guard to gather some fighters and keep them sober, just in case, but I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Many schools of magic were disciplined enough to keep the peace, so Morgana wasn’t really all that worried. “I have to say though, I didn’t remember this place being so big.”

“It was always meant to be a military stronghold.” Morgause was also  gazing looking down at the festive people, her arms bare despite the cold. “In the old days, the Fisher King had a court in this exact same place, but when his reign dwindled, the castle was forgotten. Later, this fortress was build and named for the ruins, Corbenic. The old kings hoped it would protect them from the empire.”

“It didn’t work, did it?”

“It did for a while, until it was surrounded and starved. It turns out having a massive host within your walls burns through your food faster than fire.”

“I saw some space that could be cleaned up for small harvests” Morgana pointed out, thinking of the deserted courtyards on the south part of the walls.

“It’s a plan.” Morgause pointed, and then cleared her throat. “I came to tell you that our guests waiting in the throne room.”

Of course. Lady Cerys and Lord Belmont had arrived just that morning at the head of a whole group of small lords and landowners, in a clear show of strenght.

Nodding to her sister, she let her escort them through the maze that was Cenred’s Castle, in which every wall and alcove was covered by some intricate tapestry, almost vanishing against the dark stone used to build the walls. The images displayed showed many things, battles, feasts, and even a lonely rider atop of a hill, with some familiar features at that. “If its name used to be Corbenic, why was it changed to Cenred’s Castle?”

“It was a family tradition.” Morgause explained. “Every firstborn in his family inherits the name Cenred, and so, naming the fortress after him was a sure way to ascertain their power.”

“Maybe we should change it as well, call it Morgana’s or something.”

“Morgause’s little sister’s hovel”

Morgana laughed, brushing her fingers over the fabric, and smiling wearily at the self portrait. “I thought his ego was only his own, but it seems to run in the family.”

“To be honest, it was one of his best qualities, out of the bed.”

“Really now? I did always wonder if I should question your taste in men.” 

“And women.” Morgause’s smirked, before narrowing her eyes in careful consideration. “If we’re at this point, should I be asking about your own history of lovers?”

“Not a chance.” She would rather keep her secrets. For all the time she spend with Morgause in her other life, she had never, even then, mentioned those nights. She wondered how different things might have been otherwise, or perhaps her need to erase a sin from her conscience had only added to her hatred. “We should go before we’re late.”

The two made their path down the tower, with Morgana doing her best to ignore the crippling exhaustion that called her to bed. 

Cenred’s old stewards had the castle manned and locked when they arrived, but surrendered easily after only a few moments. From that point on her days had been a blur of checking supplies, the vault, getting acquainted with the castle properly and meeting the staff. The feast outside was only the least of her worries, less so than getting rid of old loyalties and harvesting new ones. 

When they finally stood before the doors, she checked herself out, adjusting the old velvet dress and the fur cloak around her body.

The throne room of the castle was a wide ample space in which a solitary chair made sure that the ruling monarch was the only one sitting. Braziers and torches burned all over the chamber, filling it with a warm eerie light, while a table by the side carried food and drink to those who wished. Waiting for them was everyone to whom the coming decisions would matter the most, and they were clearly eager to show their power.

Lady Elaine had chosen her best clothes that afternoon. She wore a fanciful wool dress of rich red colors, draped under a heavy fur cloak that made her seem taller, while the blue ox of her noble house was displayed in the sapphire around her neck. It was beautiful, one that could’ve only been made by magic or a very talented craftsman. Standing to her side, Lord Trito was also well dressed, wearing pants and doublet of black and silver thread, with dogs running up and down his sleeves, while his belt shimmered with gold and silver.

Equally united, Lady Cerys and Lord Belmont stood on their own small group of lords, purple wolves beside a lonely hill crowned by a tower. The only one who seemed more curious than worried was Lord Madoc, standing aside from everyone and savoring a chicken leg.

In comparison, her people were shabby, to say the least. Alvarr was dressed in simple trousers and shirt, while Ruadan still bore his crude leather doublet over chain mail. Morgana had asked for a representative from the Brendui, and they chose a old woman, with dark skin covered in white tattoos, named Niely. There was no one to represent the druids as an united people, but Morgana judged they wouldn’t bee needed for this.

“I would like to thank you all for your presence here.” Morgana said, striding into the room. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the matters that must be discussed.”

“Indeed we do.” Lord Belmont said, squaring his shoulders. “Our victory against Lot will surely have consequences.”

“Our victory?” Alvarr questioned, snorting. “I don’t remember seeing you in the fight, or your sigil.”

The words had the expected effect, Lord Belmont narrowed his eyes towards the renegade, the rings around his fingers glimmering as they closed into fists, but before anything could come of it, Morgause was already moving on. 

“That is irrelevant at this point, I’m afraid, right now, there are other matters that concern this country.” Morgause reached the center of the room, making sure the attention was all on her as she circled a brazier. “Essetir’s enemies are not done. Lot’s family in Anglia will surely seek retribution, and every other kingdom in Albion will surely be shaken by the news of an army with sorcerers in its ranks.”

“If we had Lot with us, we might have negotiated peace.” Lady Cerys lamented and Morgana needed effort so she wouldn’t roll her eyes.

“He escaped, something that only adds to his skills. He will either die in the snows or find shelter, be that as it may, it hardly brings relevance to this speculation.” Morgause walked towards the high seat, which no one had taken, resting her hands over the old wood. “What is relevant at the moment, is the choice of a leader to guide this country through dark times.”

“Lot was the heir to that throne.” Lord Belmont pointed out.

“Lot is gone, his tail stuck between his legs.” 

“He is gone.” Lady Cerys acknowledge. “We worked towards that goal,  now we must see to our interests. If his family finds insult in his defeat, we might negotiate with them. Offer the crown, in exchange for a peaceful ruler. I seem to remember his little brother as a kind lad.”

“And yet, Anglia is one of the Five Kingdoms in alliance with Camelot, they persecuted those with magic there.” Nyely explained.

“Arrangements can certainly be made on that regard.”

“We won” Ruadan spoke, shaking his head. “We’ve earned the right to be here, nothing less will be accepted.”

Lord Belmont pursed his lips. “The law...”

“The law never mattered much in regards to rulers.” Morgana finally accepted her cue, tilting her chin upwards in a small show of defiance. “Cenred’s family didn’t receive this castle, they took it. Uther himself is only the first king of his line to hold Camelot. North and South, bloodlines had fallen to the right of conquest. Aren’t we all conquerors at this point?”

A heavy, ethereal silence overlapped the chambers, and Morgana let it be, her eyes darting to the window where the gray skies were becoming darker. Somewhere out there she could see the tale of what happened in Essetir spreading like weed all over the land, but how many ripples would it cause? What would Arthur do when he heard?Wings flapped in her vision, and suddenly there was a crow perched on the windowsill, all black eyes and black feathers. Had it fed on the dead bodies she left behind?

“Essetir should be ruled by one of our own.” It was Lord Belmont who risked the suggestion. “It should be someone strong, with influence upon this lands. Someone powerful.”

“Are you offering yourself, Lord Belmont?” Lady Elaine questioned.

“I would humbly accept the compliment, my lady.” He said, puffing his chest. “Lady Morgana claims the law of inheritance doesn’t matter, but I say it should. It bring legitimacy and stability. And with that in mind, I should inform you all that my family shares blood with Cenred’s, from a wedding two generations ago.”

“No” Ruadan might as well have screamed, given the shock that run through Belmont. “Lady Morgana is right, we beat Lot, what we do now is up to us. Among the druids, a leader is chosen by the most wise among them, all with equal voice. Although I have no right to a place among them, I think their methods should apply now. We must have a voice in the choosing.”

“And I believe, Lord Madoc’s support would be essential, neighbors and allies matter of course.” Morgause added.

By the food table, Madoc threw a chicken bone on the floor, brushing the grease from his beard before smirking towards the room around him. He had gathered his spears and marched for war, and now, he was clearly enjoying himself. “I negotiated with the Lady Morgana, can’t remember anyone else promising what I wanted.”

His lecherous gaze was unwelcome, but it served her well enough. The mention of her name was all that she needed. Among Lady Cery’s group she could see the trepidation in their eyes, as they became aware of their position. They not part of the battlefield, and certainly by now, they must have heard from their spies about the cries of her name, and the deeds of her magic. Whatever they might have said, they too long, because Ruadan was already grasping at the sugestion.

“I would follow the Lady Morgana.”

“So would I.” Alvarr followed suit, winking her way.

The brendui took her time, she closed her eyes, running her hands through graying curls of hair, before finally nodding. “The brendui had always done the will of the Goddess, we’ve fought now for it to, something I never thought possible, something accomplished by these two woman in front of me. I’ve heard many things, but what I’ve seen speaks louder, I say. My sisters and I support the Lady Morgana.”

“That sounds good for me.” Lady Elaine suddenly addressed her peers, her hands joined in front of her. “As Lady of Astolat, I give the lady Morgana my support for the crown.”

“I would follow the lady Morgana. I-I think she would be better than Cenred was...” Lord Trito added after a gentle poke from Lady Elaine.

Now, other small lords were nodding along, as the power shifted around the room. Had it ever been anywhere else? Morgana wondered, as, finally, Lady Cerys sighed.

“It seems the only choice, apparently.”

“It won’t be a decision you will regret, Lady Cerys” Morgana spoke.

“Oh, my dear, regret is a powerful thing, but since you came all this way, it would be a shame to stand in your way.” As if you could, Morgana thought. “Very well, Morgana Pendragon, it seems you’re to be my queen.”

Belmont remained silent, his agreement implied if nothing else, while Lord Madoc, well, King Madoc, laughed out loud, boasting about seeing to a proper trade deal between their neighboring kingdoms soon. One by one, vows were made under the dim fire of the room, promises under the Goddess and the New God of bread and wine. 

And that was how Morgana became Queen. Not by slaughtering her enemies, or scheming someone’s death. Not under pompous rites and fancy protocols, where gold would shimmer above her dark curls and crowds would clap, but by manipulating people and arguing them against the wall.  She became a queen, sitting on a cold chair while Morgause fed the fires, with none of the elation she expected to feel. She remembered the wounded men of women she healed and those that couldn't, that were now burned or buried somewhere, and she remembered her white dragon surcoat covered by mud and blood when she finally it off. A sudden understanding hit Morgana that the triumph from taking Camelot all those times would never repeat, that she was suddenly very aware of what would come next, and what fate would bring if she made mistakes.

“I must say, this was easier than I thought.”

“They had no choice really.” Morgana answered, eager for a distraction, the crow was still up there, watching. “We should go after those papers on the food and taxes as soon as we can. Also, we must bring in people from the countryside, warn them we offer food and shelter for the winter.”

“I’ll see to it.” Morgause paused. “And also, see that you have a crown.”

“I don’t need a crown.”

“We already place you on a throne you had no right to, by wielding the tides of a military victory and making people believe you summoned lightning from the skies all by yourself.” Morgause dryly whispered. “The crown matters and I’ll find you one.”

“All right.” Morgana said, seeing the merit of the argument. “You can find me a crown.”

“Good.” Her sister paused, frowning as she took in the pillars to her left. “Should I leave you two alone then?”

“Yes please.”

“Wanna tell me what this is about?”

“You would be mad, so no.”

Exasperation was becoming an all too familiar feeling in her sister’s face, but Morgana wasn’t stopping any time soon. When Morgause left, leaving her alone, Morgana felt the shadow moving from behind the pillar. She had been invited, but hadn’t moved from her spot during the whole ordeal, and now, she wondered what would her actions bring.

“You tricked me.” Mauren, sister to Tauren, and leader of a considerable number of warrior sorcerers, stood in front of her, eying everything like it was a pile of dung. 

Morgana smiled. “How so?”

“It was clever. I was tired, hungry and tied to a pole, you had all the cards. It was hard to brush away the offer. I should have paid attention.” The young woman bit down at her lip, her knuckles turning pale around the handle of her sword. “Since then, I had time to think though, time to mull it over. I was just watching my fighters partying with men from Essetir when it occurred to me. You promised I could take your life, but you never said anything about what your sister would do to me. Worse, now you’re queen, and people already whisper about you as if you jumped right out of a legend. Killing your would only bring me and my men misery.”

“You have great loyalty for them, and they for you.” Morgana said, blinking down at her cracked nails. “When I had you, they didn’t hesitate to drop their weapons in exchange for your life, there is beauty to that. I hope you appreciate it.”

“I do.” Mauren eyed her carefully. “Now what?”

It was a good question, one that Morgana caught herself asking after every moment and everything she did. “To be honest, I was sincere when I offered you my life. Morgause would take over, and she would do a good job protecting our people, I have no doubt of that.”

That seemed to shake her. “You wanted to die?”

“Not really, not anymore, but I’ve died before, there is not much to it. A little pain, a little despair, and it’s done.” She leaned over, resting her elbows on her legs, watching Mauren very carefully. “If you’re not interested in taking my life...”

“Yet.”

“Yet” Morgana smiled. “Would you like to have a place in my court?”

Mauren huffed. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? What would I even do?”

“I’m not sure, I was thinking of giving you a position like the First Knight of Camelot, the First Knight of Essetir.”

“Essetir doesn’t have knights.”

Now Morgana shrugged, feeling a certain joy at her next words. “I’m Queen, it would be a pleasure to change that.”

On the windowsill the crow opened its wings and took flight. As Morgana rested on her throne, she wondered about the coming months. Her sister was right in that they would be on thin ice for a while, tested and poked by enemies from all sides. Ahead of her, there were three months of winter, three months until war became viable and new battles came to her door. 

Nodding to herself, she got back to her feet. There was a lot of work to do.

 


End file.
